


Obstinacy of the puppet.

by n1a1u



Category: Dollhouse, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Translation, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 01:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3917392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n1a1u/pseuds/n1a1u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mystrade. Crossover with "DollHouse". Lestrade is a "Doll". He was ordered by Mycroft with a programmed liking for Sherlock. But there was a failure. Lestrade ignored Sherlock and asked Mycroft out on a date. Lestrade was reprogrammed three times. They added dislike for people in a suit, contempt for officials. He was forced to forget elder Holmes each time, but he continued to choose Mycroft at every new meeting. And meanwhile Mycroft become more and more afraid, that eventually Lestrade will become indifferent to him.</p><p>Don't worry! You don't need to know DollHouse canon to understand the fic.</p><p>Now beta readed!<br/>I want to say thank you to my english beta LydSqd for her help and patience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Упрямство марионетки.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2635175) by [n1a1u](https://archiveofourown.org/users/n1a1u/pseuds/n1a1u). 



> It's a translation. If you want to help me make it better, please let me know.
> 
>  **Dollhouse** is an illegal organization. They own the technology of wiping, making and imprinting any identity into human brain. They earn lots of money by making characters with all ordered false memories, muscle memory, language, etc.  
>  A **doll** or an **Active** is a person with wiped identity, who entered into contract with Dollhouse for 5 years. During this time Dollhouse uses his body, imprints into his brain combined personalities and sends him on **engagement**. Every Active is given a new name. This name is different from the real name of the person. After 5 years in Dollhouse each person gets his identity back, plus lots of money, and forgets the horrible memories he wanted to get rid of 5 years prior. After each engagement, Actives get their memories erased and live in a childlike state in the Dollhouse. The Dollhouse implants Actives with devices that locate them on GPS and remotely monitor their vital signs. These devices are placed at the base of the neck.  
>  An Active in a **childlike state** is very primitive. Dolls can eat, sleep, and work in gym, with no memory of their past. They can't make their own decision, they don't have free will.  
>  **Handlers** are employees of a Dollhouse facility who are responsible for escorting an Active to and from an engagement while monitoring them during their time with clients for their safety. An Active with any new personality always trusts his Handler. Every pair Active/Handler has their own code phrase, it lets an Active identify his Handler at any time.  
>  **A wipe** is the technological erasure of memory. The Dollhouse performs wipes on each Active after each engagement.  
>  **A Treatment** is a procedure of wiping an identity from Active's brain or recording it. A Treatment leaves only basic Active structure is in human brain after wiping.

Mycroft was sitting in a cosy director's office of the British branch of "Dollhouse" and attentively examining photos of Actives. He didn't know which to choose.

The doll had been designed for Sherlock.

The younger brother of tactful Mycroft Holmes was a loner, an impatient person, and absolutely didn't want to get on with people. There was no man in his company, who could be described with the noun "friend", or at least "close acquaintance", and far less "lover", the number of said company invariably tended to be zero.

And yes, Sherlock was attracted to the same sex, like Mycroft himself. Only in the light of the progressive sociopathy and almost complete loss of interest in sex his experience didn't go beyond teenage experimentation.

The first time, Mycroft ordered an almost complete copy of his younger brother. Sensibly decided; Sherlock would feel an unusual unity and allow that man to become closer than the others.

He miscalculated.

The dark-haired genius chemist named Mark held the attention of Sherlock for exactly seven and a half minutes.

Then there was Alex - a charming young student, who was admiringly hanging on his every word, and then Jason, who argued for any reason, and then…

Today Mycroft has decided to order someone older.

Sherlock could benefit from someone that inspires respect yet doesn’t have to suppress his own intellect. Someone who can be supportive in difficult times, strong, but may sometimes need help and be open to receive it.

It remained only to choose a body for the newly created character.

Why not? Mycroft shrugged. He stopped thinking about Sherlock's likes and made a choice based on his own preferences. “Please request the Active named Max.” He turned to Miller. “I want to meet him in the flesh.”

Ten minutes later a tall taut man dressed a dark blue T-shirt and jersey pants entered the room.

Emptiness and indifference shone through the deepness of his brown eyes.

Mycroft hardly stifled a shiver of instinctive revulsion mixed with fear. To lose one’s personality, become a puppet in the hands of others seemed the worst possible nightmare for him.

He pulled himself together and walked slowly around the man, examining him from all available angles like an offered for sale thoroughbred.

_Magnificent!_

Mycroft blinked and sat back in his chair with the tenacity of an inveterate monk dismissing the stream of obscene images, instantly flooding his mind. But he couldn’t deny himself a small pleasure, and mentally dressed Max. First in a strict business suit, and then in a tuxedo with a white silk shirt.

_Excellent!_

Noble gray entangled in short hair looked like silvery filaments and added the invented aristocratic image even more charm.

Waste of time, Mycroft stopped the flight of imagination and grimaced. Unlike Sherlock, I'm quite able to create and develop relationships with a real person, he reminded himself.

Then why are you still alone? The importunate inner voice said.

“What is your decision, Mr. Holmes?” Miller politely interrupted the protracted examination.

“Suitable,” Mycroft smiled frostily. “You can go,” he nodded to the Active, who obeyed mindlessly.

For an instant a sense of foreboding stabbed under his ribs, and Mycroft barely noticeably stiffened.

And then he gave a vow to stay away from the new doll as far as possible.

“We have worked out an excellent legend,” Miller boasted as soon as the door closed behind Max, and gave Mycroft a tablet with fake files. “Our experts have already prepared the necessary documents for the transfer of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade from the regional branch of Somerset to Scotland Yard.”

“A doll is on guard of public order. What an irony.” Mycroft shook his head approvingly. “On Monday he should take office. I'll see to it that the investigation Sherlock will be interested in will lead down this particular Detective Inspector.”

***

“Scotland Yard deliberately employs the worst of the graduates of remedial classes, or is it just a funny coincidence?” Sherlock addressed to no one in particular and therefore not even bothered to lower his voice, running out of the stuffy apartments on to the street.

“Switch to indulgence,” said the man who was following after him. “The girl has been working only six months as a visiting pathologist, she’ll gain experience gradually.”

Neither of them noticed Mycroft Holmes who froze on the other side of the police line away from casual onlookers.

Mycroft put his umbrella in front of himself and instinctively swung forward, trying to find a flaw, the slightest hint of a discrepancy in the likeness of the man, trying to settle nerves with his falseness, and send away obsessional visions.

Every nerve of the deceptively impassive Holmes body was resonating with husky modulations of vocal cords of this Active… no, of Max… of Detective Inspector Lestrade.

“The victim was strangled first and only then was hanged on a rope,” Sherlock continued, and didn't react to the words of Lestrade. “Even a layman like you could easily tell the difference.”

“Save your flattery for a more suitable occasion.” Lestrade chuckled, noting something in his notebook.

The corners of Lestrade’s lips lifted barely with a hint of smile, his warm gaze slid over Sherlock’s proudly straightened back and painful envy burst inside Mycroft. It took him a long thirty seconds to cope with impermissible emotions, and the tingling wave that rushed along his spine became the result of the November piercing wind.

Without a doubt.

A small slim woman in white forensic overalls popped out from the entrance hall. She hurried to a company car, holding in her right hand an angular box with equipment, and bowing her head very low. Sherlock grinned happily.

“Your homework is to learn by heart a reference for medical examiners, the section 'asphyxia', key phrases 'the absence of strangulation furrow',  'specific bruising on a back in the area of shoulder blades' and 'bits of pillow stuffing in a nasal cavity and in a mouth',” he shouted in her back.

The woman lowered her head even more and quickened her pace, trying as quickly as possible to hide inside the mobile crime lab.

“You have to stop tormenting our experts,” Lestrade demanded firmly, but poked Sherlock in his shoulder quite friendly.

“Is it my fault that your so-called experts are…”

“I said enough!” Lestrade's voice rang. “Your homework is to study the Code of Business Ethics and practice in front of the mirror and imitate a friendly chat with someone.”

To the great surprise of Mycroft, Sherlock obediently stopped speaking.

That says a lot.

Mycroft mentally shook hands with himself and congratulated himself on his success. Sherlock's interest with the new Detective Inspector closely intertwined with his interest to investigations lasting for almost a week, and flared brighter with every day.

“Our puppet master has used things on hand to pass the message and this means the killing was an impromptu,” Sherlock mused, calculating something in his mind.

“Do you mean the writing on the wall?” Lestrade frowned. “What does…”

“Do you think that the extra rope tied to the arm and leg of the victim doesn't mean anything?” Sherlock raised his head in dignantly. “Why would the killer need to fix the rope on a metal hoop if he could just use a hook in the wall? He imitated a special suspension of a dancing puppet, I only forget…”

“Tamil Nadu[1] ethnic marionette,” Mycroft said in a bored tone, obeying the petty spirit of rivalry that has been in the air between the brothers for many years. After a moment he gritted his teeth, cursing his own lack of restraint. It wasn't a part of his original plan to attract everybody’s attention.

“And here is Mr. Know-it-All,” Sherlock spat sarcastically as he turned at the sound of the voice. “Are you spying on me again?”

Mycroft said nothing.

It was a familiar show.

Sherlock liked playing to an audience, painting the image of his brother with sinister colors, dressing him in the suit of a nemesis so an innocent spectator (today this honor fell to Lestrade's lot) didn't rise to the bait of his false kindness and charm.

Join the game. You can easily defeat him in a verbal duel, the disturbed inner voice whispered. You know Sherlock's weaknesses.

_For the sake of a doll's admiring glance? What nonsense._

Mycroft snorted mentally and with familiar gesture took out his Breguet, intending to retire in the best French traditions.

“I bet - you are siblings.” Lestrade grinned, shown up from behind Sherlock. “Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.”

“Mycroft Holmes. Nice to meet you.”

Similar to drops of mercury, words willfully slipped from his tongue, right hand automatically rose up, intending to respond to the handshake.

Mycroft was looking at his own body as if viewing himself from the side.

Panic fluttered in his brain like a helpless butterfly. Escape. Don't allow. Suppress. Soft citrus fragrance with a hint of male interest was teasing his nose, cutting the ground out from under his feet.

If only sensual thoughts were able to exude a smell, it would be that scent.

“When you, Inspector, are interested in my conclusions about today's murder, seek me out,” Sherlock said over his shoulder, crossly dived under the black and yellow tape that cordoned off the area.

The sense of time suddenly caught up with Mycroft, and he was surprised to realize that a handshake indecent delayed.

Jelly viscosity disappeared from the air, sounds returned to previous volume and clarity returned to his thoughts.

Lestrade was still holding his hand, gently stroking his sensitive wrist with the pad of the middle finger.

Madness.

“Inspector, what should we to do with the arrested?” Red-headed constable leaned out of the patrol car.

“Put him in a room for interrogation,” Lestrade said after a short pause. “I'll talk to him when I get back to the Yard.”

They watched in silence as the car drove off.

In spite of the thick car window and the lack of light Mycroft identified a man, who morosely scowled in the back seat. He was the eldest son of Sir Wilson, who was the one of the most influential people of Great Britain, a member of the state parliament.

Looking Mycroft in the eye, Lestrade said “Do me a favor. Have dinner with me.” In contrast to the humble tone, crafty little devils were dancing in the Lestrade's pupils. “Right now.”

Mycroft absently noted that he had lost himself.

Sexual tone coupled with a disarming smile strangely affected his pulse.

Do not accept under any circumstances.

“Don't you have to concentrate on the investigation now?” Mycroft slightly arched his eyebrow, skillfully portraying bewilderment.

“You see, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said confidentially and moved up closer. He thoughtfully traced fingers down the lapel of Mycroft’s coat in search of non-existent specks of dust. “I've been working in a new place just a week and have already managed to arrest a relative of an important figure of the capital.” He shrugged ostentatiously.

I'll talk to Wilson, Mycroft almost promised, but recovered in time.

Lestrade's problems weren't his concern.

They didn't have to be his concern.

And the fact of how much Mycroft wanted that Lestrade's problems suddenly become his business only underlined the dangerously high level of his idiocy.

“I feel sorry for you.” He closed his eyes for a moment.

“Immediate punishment is waiting for me in the Yard,” Lestrade said ominously and scenes of medieval tortures floated before Mycroft's inner eye. “However, even condemned men have the right to a last wish.”

“And what do you want?” Mycroft whispered, licked his dry lips.

“I want you,” Lestrade breathed hotly right into his ear. He stepped back and for a few seconds looking with pleasure in the depth of immediately dilated pupils, and then grinned good-naturedly. “I'm asking you just to have dinner with me. Without any obligations.”

He didn't even realize that at the moment Mycroft was ready to give him more. Much more than a trivial dinner under the bright flickering but stubbornly ignored sign "a date".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. A state in southern India.


	2. Chapter 2

After Mycroft agreed to dinner Lestrade eased up on the pressure. He wanted Mycroft to know he would respect his boundaries and allow him to find his comfort zone before taking the next step.

“Tell me about the features of Tamil Nadu puppets.” Waiting for their food order, Lestrade sat back, thoughtfully twisting a glass of water in his hands. “Perhaps the information will help us in the preparation of a psychological portrait of the criminal. We will combine, so to say, the useful with the pleasant.”

For you, Inspector, this conversation will eventually become completely useless, Mycroft thought and mechanically copied Lestrade's relaxed pose.

He had already made a decision and now felt quite strange, as if he was really talking to a condemned man, which would carry the knowledge of today's meeting with him to the grave. Or possibly a sick person, deprived of long-term memory.

As luck would have it, Lestrade absolutely didn't look sick.

“Four to six strings are fixed on the doll's head and shoulders and stretched out to a hoop, which is put on a puppeteer's head,” Mycroft began, focused on the memories. “Puppet's gestures are created with separate rods, one for each hand. Legs are deprived of direct control.”

From the depths of his memory surfaced the warmth and severity of the huge, nearly three-foot Rukmini doll. Glitter of gilded clothing, and the coarse clarity of the wooden face. Mycroft was lucky only once to see this puppet in action, when it came alive briefly in the hands of a dark wiry old man who arrived from distant India.

“Rods?” Lestrade rubbed his chin, which had already lost its morning smoothness.

“They are usually made of metal as well as the hoop.” Mycroft shrugged. “Both my great-grandfather and grandfather were collectors of puppets,” he added, anticipating the unspoken question.

He internally prayed that Lestrade wouldn't begin to tell stories from his own 'fake' childhood. Today Mycroft had neither the wish nor the strength for that, like any other day.

“On what charge have you arrested the man?” he asked, bringing the conversation back to a neutral topic.

“Obstruction of justice and resisting the authorities.” Lestrade pursed his lips crossly. “This jerk not only snapped, he talked back and brandished the name of his father like a national flag.” He waited until the well-trained waiter placed dishes on the table. “I hate cocky smart alecs,” he muttered under his breath and grabbed a fork.

“How is it that you are still dealing with Sherlock?” Mycroft raised his eyebrow in surprise. “I venture to suggest that you like Sherlock in spite of all his shortcomings. Am I right, Detective Inspector?”

“You are,” Lestrade nodded without hesitation.

“Then you should invite Sherlock to dinner, not me.” Mycroft smiled with feigned nonchalance.

“And endure his moaning about the lack of professionalism of Scotland Yard employees for an extra hour?” Lestrade's face distorted with holy terror. “No, thanks a lot. After a hard work week I am not capable of such feats.”

There was an awkward silence, broken only by the sounds of cutlery and conversations of other diners.

After five minutes Lestrade firmly pushed his plate aside, and leaned forward to catch Mycroft's eye.

“In fact, Mr. Holmes, Sherlock does not cause the slightest fraction of emotion and desires that I feel towards you,” he said firmly in a low voice. “No need to play games with me. If you aren't interested in me, just say it frankly, and I'll leave you alone.”

Mycroft felt as helpless as a fish swallowing bait too deep.

He knew for sure, he would not be able to remove this hook with minimal damage.

Shouldn’t even try.

Of course, he could lie delicately, besides words using clearly verified gestures and facial expressions. Mycroft was known as a master of such tricks. Only the doll would forget all pain and joy associated with Mycroft Holmes the next morning. For Mycroft himself, this lie would be absolutely useless now.

It is foolish to deny the existence of a fisherman, while swaying from side to side on a strong fishing line.

They ate the rest of dinner in silence and the bill was paid.

The street was already dark.

Lestrade turned the corner and suddenly stopped, looking at the brightly lit windows of the restaurant, from which they had just left.

A sharp gust of icy wind with pilferer's impudence sneaked under their coats, made them shiver, and brought with it a musty taste of hopelessness and loneliness.

And there behind the panes of glass, in a cozy light from golden fixtures were elegant ladies and gentlemen having a small talk, laughing, enjoying life.

“You know, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said without turning around, as if hypnotized with the skill of an unknown artist. “After moving to London windows began to seem like a kind of barrier between two realities to me. Where I am, there is always coldness, darkness and restlessness, but 'Through the Looking Glass' its completely the other way around.” He quietly cleared his throat. “Even when I accidentally get into their world, the shadow does not let go of me for a second.”

His tone made Mycroft feel a familiar anguish, echoing somewhere in the depth of his chest. Yielding to a sudden impulse, he stepped closely to Lestrade's back, but at the last moment came to his senses and froze, unable to overcome the last couple of inches.

Unable to reach, to examine his own motives, to soothe the feverish shudder that gripped every muscle.

Lestrade trustingly swung backwards to him, as if so had happened a million times, leaned his head on Mycroft's shoulder and exhaled when Mycroft's breath warmed his temple.

“Will you allow me?” He turned around and looked at Mycroft hopefully. “Or will you leave me at the mercy of darkness and coldness to revel in my own nothingness?”

“I should not agree,” Mycroft muttered hoarsely, not realizing that he spoke aloud. “It’s impractical.”

Contrary to the words, his hands slid up, fingers of the left hand gripped the collar of the Lestrade's coat, trying to find the necessary stability, fingers of the right hand dug into the coarse hair at the nape of Lestrade's neck and drew the man closer.

Mycroft thought that the kiss would be insistent and greedy, a little aggressive, exactly the same as Lestrade was in the first minutes of their acquaintance. He found himself completely unprepared for this stunning maddening tenderness.

Careful touching of soft lips made him dizzy. The stretched string of growing excitement vibrated inside his body. The bitterness of autumn fog mixed with the sweetness of meadow grasses made him laugh and cry at the same time.

Mycroft hovered above the ground disoriented in time and space.

There was a narrow strip of warmth, where Lestrade slipped the tip of his hot tongue and Mycroft's heart convulsively jerked up, ready to jump through his throat.

The higher you fly the harder you fall.

For one brief moment Mycroft wanted to rush, to break down the locks and bans and irrevocably plunge into feelings that would make him fly into pieces for sure. Because to live and deliberately abandon those compliant sensual lips was not possible.

Now he was forever poisoned by this knowledge.

The rational part of his brain repeated, that Lestrade was just a doll, a puppet dutifully performing his assigned role, a soulless machine. It is impossible to characterize his actions as reciprocity. The emotional part refused to believe arguments of cold reason.

They moved more confidently. Faster. Hotter.

Mycroft was telling himself that he should stop. Right now. The next breath. He wondered about his own ability to do without air.

It's ordinary physical attraction, nothing more. He will cope.

Neither of them could say precisely how much time passed.

They broke the kiss and now were panting, their foreheads lightly touching. Flaps of unbuttoned coats and jackets, that eager hands had parted to the sides long ago, allowed their bodies to press tightly, palms comfortably settled on each other's back, rubbing skin through the thin fabrics of their shirts, hard cocks pressed against the thighs.

There was a blurry motion at their periphery of vision and a quiet cough. Both men turned synchronously. Out of darkness came а broad-shouldered man with a military bearing, and Mycroft instantly recognized him. This was Carl, Max's Handler.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes.” Carl nodded politely to Mycroft. “Unfortunately, we have to go.” He looked at his ward. “Would you like a treatment, Max?”

“Treatment? That sounds good.” Lestrade smiled light-heartedly and followed Carl to the black van, which was parked in the parking lot. “I'll call you as soon as I deal with some urgent issues,” he shouted to Mycroft and raised his hand in parting.

“You won't,” Mycroft whispered hollowly. “You won't even remember that I exist.”

He should fasten his coat, get into his car and go to work, where in his peacefully quiet private office he would be able to plunge into the routine of public affairs. When his thoughts slowed down and run heavy from fatigue and lack of sleep, he could take the risk and drown the remnants of reason in a generous dose of alcohol, and then go home.

It would certainly help.

Mycroft stayed there, in the freezing wind for a long time, with his chin high and his shoulders squared, staring blankly at night. He was patiently waiting for the pain to subside.

Waiting to lose the inappropriate sensitivity in his gradually freezing body.

The hands of the old Breguet went round as the deprived of physical shell recent wound continued to ache under Mycroft's ribs.

***

“Dani, Mr. Holmes asked to remake the last Max's imprint,” Miller said by telephone immediately after the conversation with Mycroft. “The doll had confused brothers and didn't choose the one who should be chosen.”

“From a scientific point of view, your phrase is not quite correct,” Dani launched into an argument. “You can’t program the doll for unconditional desire to a specific person. If only I would have it in stock…”

“Don't clog my head with unnecessary details,” Miller winced. “Can you change anything, or should we return the money to the client and withdraw from the contract?”

“I can add a dislike based on external factors,” Dani mused. “But I can’t guarantee absolute success. In addition, I’ll have to delete all the memories associated with the "wrong" brother. The first impression, you know, was recorded in several parts of the brain at once, and if it is not fully removed…”

“Erasing those memories was the second request of Mr. Holmes, so ceases to philosophize and get to work.”

“All right. Just in case I'll add a little piece of information with reference data so Lestrade will have an overview about the elder Holmes.”

“Do everything you see fit,” Miller agreed. “Just don’t delay. Tomorrow at eight in the morning Detective Inspector Lestrade must return to Scotland Yard.”


	3. Chapter 3

“What have we here?” Lestrade said to a pretty woman - medical examiner, buttoning the zipper of his forensic overalls while on the move.

“To begin with, hello.” The woman smiled and gave a searching glance at him. “It's nice to finally meet with the man who became the object of Scotland Yard's gossip, and who had barely taken office.”

“Next time, don't waste time fabricating the surroundings just for me.” Lestrade snorted, examining the room with professional skill. “For me, a visit to the scene of a crime has long lost its romantic flair. Just invite me for a cup of coffee.” He merrily winked at the woman, but then saw the lateral black letters on the mirror's surface and instantly became serious. “The preliminary cause of death?”

“The victim was in the literal sense of the word impaled.” She carefully rounded a pool of blood, which had already dried up around the edges, and moved closer to Lestrade. “Clumsily and hastily. He died within five - ten minutes from the rupture of internal organs and excessive blood loss.”

“Where did the blood on the back of his head come from?”

“I assume that the offender first hit the victim on the head and he was stripped of consciousness. I'll be able to tell you more precisely after the autopsy.” The woman bit her lip deep in thought. “The sticks were attached to his arms before his death, because he has too visible bruises and hematomas on his forearms. Rather, the offender was manipulating the victim's hands, lifting them up or moving them apart with the sticks.”

“He specifically placed the victim in front of a large mirror as to admire the show from behind the doll's back,” muttered Lestrade and shrugged with disgust. “Cheer up, Merrie Olde England! There is a maniac loose in London.”

***

“Look, the freak come running again.” A constable poked his team-mate in the ribs and nodded towards Sherlock.

“Got a sniff of carrion, no doubt.” The other one grimaced. “Where is Stevenson? Now the fun begins.”

“Detective Inspector Stevenson left fifteen minutes ago.” The constable shook his head. “Forensics has caused this new one... Lestrade. It is said that both the murder in Richmond the day before yesterday and today's corpse are the same persons handiwork.”

“I've heard that the deceased was a notable pervert during his lifetime,” said his team-mate, glancing around. “A special room was found in his flat with all kinds of chains, whips and other sadomasochistic bullshit.”

“Freak will love it.” The constable snickered gleefully rubbing his puffy reddened palms. “He had not, by chance, dragged this prim bore in here today.”

“They are going to have fun together,” readily picked at his team-mate. “Such aristocratic fops actually are the most terrible perverts. Which of them do you think was 'the man'?”

Lestrade silently materialized behind the constables who lost their vigilance. “If I hear this kind of talk during working hours once more, you’ll receive a reprimand,” he announced insinuatingly. “Now shut your mouth and begin to interview neighbors.”

***

“Why have you come?” Sherlock glanced at his brother, habitually reading visual information off him. _Had lunch at the Diogenes. Hasn't slept in more than a day. Drank Scotch yesterday . A lot of Scotch. Alone. Has visited Mum this morning. Annoyed._

“The victim worked for the government and had some weaknesses.” Mycroft shifted from foot to foot and wearily waved his umbrella. “We don’t want what is good covertly made public.”

Sherlock contemptuously curled his lips. “Are you asking me to...?”

“I ask you not to comment mindlessly on anything you find in this house.” Mycroft squeezed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. “I am concerned about your disorderly conduct.”

“And I'm concerned about your persistent interest in Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Sherlock retorted sarcastically. “Why did you not acquaint him with peculiarities of Tamil Nadu puppets last time you were together? It's such a handy postcoital theme.”

“There was nothing between us,” Mycroft snapped dryly. “And never will be.”

“I know, I saw Lestrade the next morning.” Sherlock absently brushed the long bangs aside from his forehead. “He didn't look like a man marked by your invaluable attention. Not good enough even for one night?”

 _Too good to be satisfied for one night._ Mycroft swallowed hard, remembering the folly that gripped him then. A sudden throb of phantom pain shot somewhere under his ribs to the left and then immediately disappeared. Driving away forbidden emotions, he clenched the handle of his umbrella. “Are you jealous?” Mycroft raised his eyebrow with feigned astonishment.

“Why on earth?” Sherlock screwed up his face. “But I'll be glad if you can find another subject to sharpen your skills of manipulation and total control.”

“You are hopeless.”

“Look at him.” Ignoring his last remark, Sherlock leaned forward. “Do you see the same thing as me?”

“You're faced with something new.” Mycroft nodded, preferring not to look back toward the Detective Inspector, who came in sight of his brother. “You are scared of this unfamiliar feeling. You are...”

“That's not the point.” Sherlock waved irritably. “My deductive method fails in the analysis of Lestrade. I can't grasp things. It’s as if Inspector lives in a closet, full of different people's suits, and sometimes makes a mistake and goes to work in someone else's clothes.”

 _Your reasoning are much closer to the truth than you can imagine_ , Mycroft mentally patted brother on his shoulder.

“Will you let me examine the crime scene?” asked Sherlock, with an invisible to an outsider impatient note in his voice.

“On one condition,” Lestrade replied grumpily, giving Sherlock a gimlet gaze. “You’ll stop commenting publicly on my personal life... or lack thereof.”

“It’s a beautiful day,” Sherlock muttered grimly to himself. “As it was in the fabulously early childhood. Everybody vying for something, wants me to shut up.” He looked up sharply. “I'm not sure I fully understand the nature of your claim, Inspector, but... As you say.”

“I am glad that we agreed.” Lestrade invitingly raised the police tape barrier. It seemed he didn't even notice the elder Holmes, who froze tensely three feet away from Sherlock.

With a strange detachment Mycroft began to sort out all kinds of dislike or even hate, which Dollhouse's experts could add in Lestrade's artificial personality. It was painful and yet an exciting experience, as if you tearing an almost dried up scab off of a skinned knee.

There was no need to struggle with himself anymore, no risk of breaking at an inopportune time.

He wanted to savor the details, bit by bit burning the interfering desire for the mindless puppet.

Now Lestrade was not interested, devoid of memories and questionable value of his erroneous feelings.

Now Mycroft will be able to forget.

Bogged down in a swamp of internal contradictions, Mycroft didn’t notice that he was alone. He woke up five minutes later, when Sherlock raced past him like a spring storm, muttering something about stick puppets, sadistic bents and relentless stupidity.

“This time, he grappled with forensics,” Lestrade either complained or wondered aloud, as he leaned against the hood of the patrol car. “I admire your patience. I bet Sherlock was a very difficult child.”

“On his best days.” Mycroft chuckled absently. “On the worst he was quite unbearable. However, when we were younger I could compromise with him. The main thing was to correctly formulate the terms of the contract.”

Lestrade threw his head back, staring up at the gray sky swollen by rain. His whole appearance: crossed arms, tired wrinkles around eyes and tightly pursed lips, came in unison with the sad weather. For some reason his unexpected revelation about Through the Looking Glass came to Mycroft's mind. Strong desire to penetrate the thoughts of another person had come over him, Mycroft could not resist.

“What are you thinking about, Inspector?”

“I'm afraid you won't like the honest answer,” said Lestrade, “and I have an iron clad rule: I never lie on Mondays.”

“But still?”

As if with great difficulty Lestrade lowered his head and looked at Mycroft. In the depths of his pupils for a split second flashed searing mix of regret and helpless rage.

“I have been imagining taking you into the first safe place I can find and ripping this disgusting three-piece suit off you. Watch as buttons go flying in all directions, and the fabric bursting at the seams,” he said slowly, never for a moment dropping his eyes from Mycroft's, “as you tremble beneath my touch, as you grow excited with you beg me on your knees to take you right then and there, rough and fast. You shouting my name when I finally agree.”

A theatrical pause was endured while Lestrade pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

Mycroft thought absently that he wouldn't mind a cigarette right now as well. Lestrade's fantasy was so bright and realistic. However, the main madness of the situation was that Mycroft wouldn't mind seeing this fantasy come into practice.

He had never been aroused so quickly by simple dirty talk. The ease with which Lestrade was crushing his longstanding beliefs caused irrational fear in Mycroft.

Striking his lighter, Lestrade put his pack back in his pocket. A devilish grin was dancing on his lips.

“Satisfied?”

 _Satisfied_ \- absolutely not the word that Mycroft would describe his condition while in the company of Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Holmes himself asked to add to the original imprint of the doll a healthy portion of candor and perseverance, so Lestrade would make the first step independently, because Sherlock, in this matter, was completely hopeless.

He didn’t suspect that these supportive options would turn against him.

“Do you want to have a drink somewhere after I finish here?” asked Lestrade quietly, looking to the side.

Mycroft was ready to swear a vow that at the moment notes of reckless courage and confidence disappeared from Lestrade's voice.

“Forced to give up.” Mycroft barely pushed the right words through his numb throat, words which were radically different from those that prompted his body.

Only a fool would hanker for a few hours of enjoyment, knowing that the price would increase exponentially with each passing second.

***

Squeezing an opportunity to communicate with Dollhouse's programmer in private, Mycroft was looking around the holy of holies - Dani's laboratory.

There were numerous computers randomly disposed by some unknown decorater along and medical equipment around the room. On all sides stretched colorful garlands of wires, monitors glowing with complex graphics, pulsating wave-like diagrams and alternating figures. Fenced off by a dim wall compartment, towered an unusually shaped chair with a white plastic semicircular covered its headboard.

There was a recreation area near the front door with a sofa, two armchairs, a small table, covered with crumbs, bright candy wrappers and empty cans, refrigerator and microwave.

It seemed as if Dani does not leave the lab for weeks at a time, ignoring little things like cleaning and proper rest.

In fairness, it should be noted, the presence of a praise worthy habit not to eat in the workplace.

“You see, Mr. Holmes.” Dani said thoughtfully while he twisted a 3D-projection of a brain on the screen. “The emergence of love, catalysts and selection criteria in combination are multi-dimensional puzzles. Scientists haven't dissected it into separate components yet. We know which areas of the brain are involved in the process, how endocrine profiles are change. We can copy the 'love' of the existing identity into a new one, move as a 'black box', but no more.”

“Are you trying to tell me that it’s not possible to get the doll to love my brother?”

“And this too, the main problem that we have to solve, however, now lies in the fact that with each new acquaintance that particular doll _falls in love_ with you.”

“At first sight?” Mycroft chuckled skeptically. “On what basis do you make such a ridiculous conclusion?”

“A Handler remotely monitors an Active's status during the mission, it’s one of his main duties. Sometimes I personally supervise indicators to validate the final "amalgam". Rapid rise of the adrenaline level in Max's blood with your appearance, increased of the level of dopamine and serotonin, secretion of oxytocin and vasopressin - I don't have the slightest doubt, he feels love.”

Without asked permission, as if in a dream Mycroft sat down in the armchair.

He gritted his teeth and curled lips into a stubborn line.

Only a moment ago it was very easy to deny the obvious, hiding behind cold arguments of reason to classify his and the doll's reaction as banal lust. Where was the vaunted family restraint and self-control? At some point, Mycroft had let himself go and allowed this painful desire form to the one-day butterfly, to the invented artificial character.

Like many enthusiasts of the business Dani liked to talk out loud.

He paid no attention to the state of his guest and was focused on the remote control, turning a color projection of both hemispheres of a brain this way and that, looking for new ways to solve this problem.

“Manually adjusting hormone levels is useless, after all we don't want to deprive a doll of emotions, we just need to override the target object. But we don't have a source to copy the necessary 'black box'. Lestrade responds very well to your brother, if only Sherlock knew about his doll and took the first step, everything would be excellent.”

“Are you sure?”

“I haven't worked with an unaware subject before, without any records of a person with the right set of feelings in relation to this subject, but... Yes, I'm sure. That every encounter with you breaks the Active's fine-tuning. We need to gently break one link of the chain - Lestrade's reaction to your acquaintance, so he can concentrate on Sherlock.”

“If Sherlock knows the truth, he will immediately clam up and go into denial. I know my brother, he won't allow himself to get close to a doll. Can we do it less elegantly - to inspire Lestrade's outright hatred to my address? I'm sure I can find any number of individuals to make copies.”

“First of all, such a strong emotion like hatred will add too much trouble for us. It will be necessary to control the Active's aggression, but given his legend, skills and knowledge... No. Too risky. Miller is unlikely to agree to take on such responsibility. You can get physically hurt, and we don’t want problems with the government or the Secret Service. Secondly, you and your brother are too similar, your primary mental image is almost identical. Hatred to you will begin to interfere with the doll's attitude to Sherlock.” Dani jumped to his feet and began pacing from corner to corner. “We need to highlight any obvious difference that immediately catches Lestrade's eye, to move the first impression to a neutral side.”

“Last time this distinction was my style of dress?”

“Don't take this as an insult, but in today's world, few people would agree to get into a classic three-piece suit on their own every day.” Dani grinned and scratched his head sheepishly. “How did he reveal his dislike?”

“It doesn’t matter.” An easy shiver pierced his spine at the mere recollection of Lestrade's provoking words that evening. “What other options come to mind?”

“Your behavior and manner of communication can be seen clear imprint of your post. This can be used. Many ordinary people have a negative attitude to the officials and government employees.”

“Well, there's truth in your argument.” Giving a cold nod, Mycroft rose from his chair. “I hope a new imprint will be ready in the near future?”

“Certainly,” Dani muttered absently and returned to the management console.

Immersed in the calculations, he didn’t notice when his influential guest left the lab.


	4. Chapter 4

It felt like as if a tight steel hoop encircled his forehead - a sure sign of an impending migraine.

Mycroft frostily said goodbye with representatives of the Japanese delegation and left the conference hall. The meeting, which by all accounts should have ended two hours ago, but the delayed ending, broke the already busy Holmes' schedule. The pain was growing. Trying to move his head as little as possible, Mycroft rushed to the saving silence of his office. There, in the top drawer was always kept a package of painkillers.

Artificial light reflected in multiple mirrors of the elevator car like a hot iron burning through his brain. For a couple of seconds Mycroft covered his eyes with his hand.

Finally, the desired floor.

The elevator chime cheerfully rang, releasing its captive free.

Staring at the floor, Mycroft counted ten excruciatingly long steps to cross the hall diagonally, six in the corridor, turn right, thirteen steps, then put electromagnetic card to the reader, turned the doorknob...

“Mr. Holmes?”

“Inspector?” Mycroft looked indifferent, he had no strength for astonishment. “What are you doing here?”

“I was interviewing the employees.” Lestrade shrugged philosophically, as if communication with senior officials was long ago his usual occupation. “Is this your office? Can I come in?”

“Sure.” Mycroft opened the door and waved his hand at his seated assistant, who jumped up from her seat. In three steps he covered the distance to the second door. “For the next fifteen minutes don't disturb me,” he snapped over his shoulder and crossed the threshold.

Lestrade went after him, curiously looking around. “I never thought about where or for who you work, but I must say, this is the place for you.”

Mycroft wanted to sit in the chair and close his eyes, squeezing throbbing temples with his hands.

An unattainable luxury.

He gritted his teeth, his fingers gripping the edge of the countertop. He thought twice, but had no wish to waste time on pleasantries.

“Who was killed this time?”

“Do you still not know? Sir Nigel Nicholls.”

Lestrade slightly squinted, as if searching for something in Mycroft’s figure, and he did the same, trying to catch the echoes of emotions on the familiar face, trying to predict which way the scale will tip, the scale of their next third-time-but-still-the-first-acquaintance.

“I see.” Mycroft slowly blinked. Every movement of facial muscles painfully echoed under the roof of his skull.

“When did you see Sir Nicholls last?”

Lestrade was deliberately suave.

In another situation Mycroft would certainly admire his stamina and self control but today this impassive mask irritated. He looked like never before. Slave and fake. Devastated.

A Doll has to be loved for its loneliness.

“Three days ago, at the meeting of the Council[2]. We rarely intersected with the Clerk[3] on business issues and weren't maintaining a personal relationship.”

A keen sense of guilt pursued Mycroft recently. His attempts to prove to himself that the lack of memories would eliminate the pain didn't come to fruition.

If there isn’t any tangible evidence of 'an accident', then if nobody remembers it never happened.

It’s a profitable concept.

You just need to forget the feeling of warmth, reliability of hands and the euphoria of flight.

Then, it will become easier.

For both of them.

“Did sir Nicholls have enemies? Do you know anyone who might wish him dead?”

“I don't know anything about this,” snapped Mycroft sharper, than he should.

Obviously, he overestimated his own capabilities.

It took just three minutes of the scheduled fifteen, and he was ready to give up and swallow an analgesic tablet without any water directly in front of Lestrade.

Damned migraine. Damned ceremonial Japaneses. Damned doll.

“Anything else, Inspector? I have a lot of work.”

“That's all. Thank you for your time.” Lestrade reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. “Call, if you remember something important to the investigation.”

“Certainly.” Mycroft reached out to take the card. His eyes fell on Lestrade's bare wrist. Powerless fury swept his mind. “Where did you get that?” he barked and jerked Lestrade's shirt cuff up.

The burgundy belt mark was clearly seen on light skin.

 _Synthetic rope_ , helpfully suggested the rational part of his brain. _Inept bondage. Twelve to twenty-four hours ago._

Lestrade quickly withdrew his hand, the strip of cardboard slipped from his fingers and planed on the desk. Confusion and surprise reflected deep in his brown eyes for a split second.

“None of your business,” he muttered angrily and without saying goodbye flew out of the office.

When the leading to the hallway door was shut, Mycroft suddenly laughed aloud and with anguish. Pain, like glowing avalanche was flowing down his esophagus, filling the solar plexus. The corners of his eyes filled with tears. He laughed and laughed like a madman. And only when he began to choke, when his numbed legs buckled and muscles twisted into a painful cramp, he subsided with a half-sigh — half-sob.

Exhausted, he collapsed into a chair and closed his eyes tightly.

It was useless.

Pain itself decides when to come and how long to lash a man. It's impossible to hide from it. Pain remembers its victim, and as long as it does, they will stay together irrespective of human desires and abilities. And people can only submissively hang on an invisible control bar, obeying the gestures of the supreme Puppeteer, and hoping that in the foreseeable future the Pain will find itself a new toy.

***

Mycroft received full details about an incident involving Sherlock at a quarter past ten in the evening. Another careless antic of the impatient boy — Sherlock didn't want to wait for the arrival of reinforcements and broke into an abandoned metalworking shop alone. The plant had long moved to a new site, but the owner was in no hurry to sell the valuable area within London. In the meantime the unguarded premises was now occupied by unsuitable people-without-primary-places-of-residence.

Sherlock maintained a business relationship with young street children and loved to throw this fact in his brother's face when Mycroft once again accused him of social awkwardness. Over the years of a wandering adult vagabond lost their sense of humor and patience. The usual approach wasn't successful, a dapper stranger received with hostility.

However, if Sherlock was really alone, it could have ended much more pitiable. Lestrade pulled him out of this foul-up. It was worth the Inspector a torn jacket and a few scratches and bruises of moderate severity. Sherlock himself got a slight concussion and predictably refused the offer to spend the night under the supervision of physicians.

The game has gone too far, it's time to pick up the thread from the hands of apprentices.

The corpse of the Clerk and the subsequent attack on Sherlock became those grains of sand that eventually provoked a vast rockfall.

In investigations of this kind restricted information always popped up. It had to be carefully filtered before it could be presented to the public. They hid MI5 and MI6 failures and averaged casualties. Lack of information in matters relating to specific areas of government activity is the reason, why Scotland Yard had rarely seen in full extent such a picture. This significantly impedes the investigations.

Mycroft had no time to get acquainted with the collected information, but even available facts were more than enough to pick up all three cases under Security Service’s jurisdiction. If necessary, he would take them even without a formal justification, and the number of people able to interfere with Holmes plans could be counted on the fingers of one hand. But the Little finger preferred not to intervene, the Thumb immersed himself in family feuds, ignored the persistent reports of assistants, the Index wasted a chance, focused on the search for a 'rat' among his subordinates, the Middle was rubbing his hands in anticipation, hoping to get the dirt on the perfect Holmes, and the Ring waved wearily, "Let him do what he wants."

The house had been silent.

Even sleeping in their beds children intuitively felt as the Master took to the stage.

Covered with a black folding screen the puppeteer-generalist began his performance.

Cannonade of phone calls, dry-intensive orders and one final touch - a confirmation from the Secretary of the Joint Intelligence Bureau had launched a cumbersome mechanism of bureaucracy. Well-trained typists were beating out requests and notifications, secretaries were running around the floor, collecting the necessary signatures, placing official stamps and carrying copies of the approved documents. In the outer office were couriers, ready to dart off.

Despite the late hour forty-five minutes later all the formalities had been complied.

The seized investigation documents and boxes with physical evidence were already loaded into the van, the dead bodies were transported to the special morgue, analysts and narrow specialists were slowly flocking in from all over the city to do their jobs.

Mycroft cocked his head with satisfaction, listening to the steady hum of twisting gears.

The pleasure from co-operation of the system marred belated understanding. He shouldn't indulge the whims of Sherlock, creating a doll - a police inspector. It was too important a post for a transient toy.

Squeezing the bridge of his nose, Mycroft exhaled, took his coat off a hanger and left the room.

***

It was nearly midnight.

Mycroft went up flimsy wooden stairs to the second floor, pulled out a nondescript key and unlocked the door. He made duplicates of each key from the rented apartment in which his brother lived. Sherlock knew, but never really objected.

And although Mycroft deftly wielded picks and could always knock, his own key seemed to him the best option. Just as in early childhood he can briefly look into brother's room, just to make sure he's all right. Far from common standards, Holmes norms.

Who is he trying to fool?

Today's visit was very doubtful to his relationship with Sherlock.

The hallway welcomed Mycroft with cozy twilight.

Dim light of a table lamp oozed out of a single room, illuminating the corridor just enough to not trip over the things scattered on the floor. The noise of cars passing along the street was streaming through the open window.

Mycroft carefully closed the door and stood hesitating at the threshold, straining his vision.

For several minutes he studied a shapeless heap on the three-quarter bed, trying to determine the number of sleeping bodies on it. Then in the far corner of the room a chair creaked strenuously, betraying the man seated on it, and Mycroft almost laughed from shameful joy - Sherlock was sleeping alone.

Lestrade removed his legs from the bed, stretched out and quietly yawned. He leaned forward and burst out of the shadows. Leaned his elbows on his knees, and winced from the squeak of dry wood.

Endlessly tired and exhausted. Lonely. But still unbroken.

There was a familiar ache under Mycroft’s ribs.

Whistling a happy tune, Pain industriously cutting his bones like a dull saw.

He even didn't notice when put up with her presence.

Suddenly Lestrade's face lighted up with a gentle smile, smoothing the harsh crease between his eyebrows for an instant.

With a slight movement he brushed a strand of hair off Sherlock's forehead, stood up and bowed at the head of the bed, as if to kiss the man sprawled in front of him. Mycroft quickly turned away, ice tongs of disappointment squeezed his throat.

_The plan has worked._

_Lestrade has interested in Sherlock, so you can celebrate another small victory._

It's just the mood for some reason is not festive.

Mycroft stepped into a cramped kitchen. His heart lost the rhythm, and he waited until it was quiet, then turned on the light. He stopped hiding, and briefly inspected the refrigerator, shelves and cupboard. Skeptically he examined the trash littered the table.

“Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded. “Sherlock said that you can drop in, but it seems to me night is not a good time for such related visits.”

“Take a shower, Inspector.” Not being distracted from his work, Mycroft pointedly sniffed. “Rinse off the hospital odor and the paranoia that you have picked up from my brother.”

Lestrade snorted in disbelief, but then surreptitiously sniffed the sleeve of his shirt, grimaced, and turned toward the bathroom.

“Clean towels are in the top drawer.” Pursing his lips, Mycroft pulled a jar with a wrinkled human ear, floating in the muddy yellow-green liquid, out of the heap, and shoved it under the sink. “I advise you not to look at the bottom.”

Lestrade easily found a towel, hung it on a hook and after a little pause opened the bottom drawer. And at first even didn't see anything special, but looked closely, reflexively slid the drawer back. Too harsh. A bottle with shampoo which stood on the edge of the sink, fell down and landed on the tiled floor with a resounding thud.

“Really? Human hands wrapped in overwrap rotting in the drawer?” muttered Lestrade. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Bloody hell! He has completely lost his mind!”

”I warned you,” a muffled voice came out of the kitchen. There was no irony or sympathy in it. “Sherlock's scientific experiments are often of repulsive character. You will have to accept it, as I accepted it a long time ago.”

“We'll see,” grumbled Lestrade, turned on water, and began to undress.

Mycroft took off his jacket and waistcoat, rolled up shirt sleeves, pulled his tie off and began to sort out the mess. Collected the garbage, put dirty dishes in the sink, even partially washed them. He moved to the far edge of the table with the microscope and numerous tubes, and rubbed the surface free.

Imagination was insistently drawing him to think of Lestrade's body under running water coated with foam.

In his ears was ringing arousal.

Mycroft stepped to the door behind which Lestrade disappeared and gently pulled the handle - it was not locked.

 _This will be the final test. The last proof that the doll has lost all interest in me_ , Mycroft was trying to convince himself, preferring not to analyze the fact, that contrary to the logic he hopes - failure won't follow. And he madly afraid of losing that hope.

He licked his dry lips and counted to a hundred, but didn't find the determination to go inside.

When fifteen minutes later a refreshed Lestrade came out of the bathroom to an air hovering with tempting aromas of hot food, on the table stood a few plastic boxes with colorful stickers and a bottle of scotch. Mycroft opened the bottle and splashed a generous portion of whiskey in glasses, offered one of them to Lestrade.

“Let's consider it as a late dinner.” Holmes nodded toward the boxes. “Choose. I'm not aware of your tastes. There's a chicken, lasagna and risotto from the Italian restaurant on the corner.”

“When did you do all this?” Lestrade looked around the kitchen and wrapped himself up in Sherlock's robe. “Did I fall asleep while I was having a shower?”

“Meals were bought by my driver.” Mycroft took a sip of whiskey and wisely turned to the window. _While I pretended to be a fucking fairy-maid instead of send everything to hell and enjoy water treatments in a pleasant company_ , he thought.

Mycroft studiously ignored the fact that now he and the subject of his urgent desire were separated by just four and a half feet of empty space and a careless tightened belt of the robe.

Uncontrolled anger boiled inside him.

He wasn’t supposed to desire Lestrade so rashly, so passionately, so deep. Such strong emotions threaten the loss of control. A loss of control, in turn, is always a problem. Varying degrees of seriousness.

There was vibrating moan of pleasure behind him.

“Deliciously!”

 _He scoffs!_ Mycroft thought. He turned on his heels and glared at Lestrade with an indignant look.

“Excuse my manners.” Lestrade embarrassedly glanced at the untouched fork and knife and then at the gnawed chicken bone in his hand. “It’s a childhood habit. I always eat chicken with my fingers.”

Mycroft enviously watched as the tip of Lestrade’s tongue slipped over flushed lips.

Lestrade threw the bone in the empty box and began methodically licking every fingertip.

Mycroft grimaced. _For God's sake!_ Rapidly losing self-control, he grabbed a kitchen towel and handed it to Lestrade. Greg grinned wryly, wiped his hands and went to the risotto. If only Lestrade was a real person, Mycroft without any hesitation would pulled him up from the table and showed the pleasure, that an experienced man can give his lover using his tongue and ten fingers.

Damned doll!

“Join me.” Lestrade put his fork aside and nodded at the unopened box.

“I am not hungry.”

“Liar.” Lestrade rose to his feet and stepped to Mycroft, causing him to press against the window sill. “I noticed your hungry gaze. You would eat me entirely, if you had the chance.” An ambigious smile appeared on his face. “Maybe you're on a diet?” he whispered softly, outlining the top button of Mycroft's shirt with his finger.

_Right. My new diet prohibits even to dream about such delicacies as a sexy brown-eyed Inspector, ready to have me spread-eagle on the kitchen table in the flat of my younger brother._

Mycroft shivered, feeling Lestrade's breath on his lips and swallowed hard when the button readily slipped out of the buttonhole.

At this point something fell with a crash in the next room, telling them of Sherlock's awakening, and then they heard the approaching slap of bare feet on the floor. Lestrade took a quick step back and returned to his chair.

Sherlock went into the kitchen, looked first at Lestrade, who continued to calmly eat risotto, and then at an unusually disheveled Mycroft.

“The phrase 'get out' seems to me the most appropriate euphemism, given the time of day and the unpleasant events of the evening,” he said glumly, glaring at Mycroft with bloodshot eyes from fatigue. “Or do I have to briefly sketch out my theses so you can accept my point of view?”

Mycroft lifted his chin and with royal condescension withstood Sherlock's gaze.

“I took the case,” he said impassively. “All three cases, to be exact. If you want to participate, I will meet you at nine o'clock at the main entrance of Thames House[4]. This offer also is relevant to you, Inspector. With the nominal point of view Scotland Yard is still leading the investigations, but de facto... If you don't join us, you will only seek out the answers to difficult questions from the public, attend press conferences with journalists and in every way present useful activity. You have eight hours for consideration,” with these words Mycroft grabbed his things from the chair and left the flat.

Twelve minutes later the Handler phoned Max and offered him to have a treatment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2\. Her Majesty's Most Honourable Privy Council, usually known simply as the Privy Council, is a formal body of advisers to the sovereign in the United Kingdom.  
> 3\. Important official, whose signature is appended to all orders made in the Council.  
> 4\. The headquarters of the UK Security Service (commonly known as MI5).


	5. Chapter 5

Three minutes to nine Mycroft stepped out of his official car and smiled to himself. Sherlock froze on the bottom step of the grand staircase of Thames House. Lestrade was smoking and standing slightly to the right, looking thoughtfully at angular sculptures perched on the sides of the gigantic arch.

“Good morning,” Mycroft greeted coldly and went straight to the checkered massive doors. “I'm glad you made the right decision.”

Mycroft went in and strode without stopping past electronic security check to the VIP-entrance in the left corner of the lobby. There was a row of six perspex time-locked security doors, stacked like the eggs of 'an unknown to science' giant insect. Inserting a card into the slot reader, Mycroft dialed a six-digit code on a keypad, and stepped into a narrow capsule. The door behind him swished and shut, five seconds nothing happened, and then opened another door, releasing him into the inner lobby of Thames House.

“They are with me,” said Mycroft to the security officer, on duty in a glass booth, and gestured toward his companions.

The officer nodded passionlessly and tapped a combination of numbers on the console, switching the security check into a manual mode, which didn’t require identification.

Sherlock was the first, who rushed into the opened capsule. Within five seconds he managed to discover sensors of firearms, explosives, metal, and a dozen other things, which he proved unable to categorize. Reluctantly leaving this miracle of modern technology, Sherlock stopped four feet away from Mycroft and stared at the security officer. Suddenly the mask of an experienced employee fell off, and was replaced by surprise and apprehension, in equal proportions, mixed with a strange excitement.

“They are under my responsibility,” Mycroft said over his shoulder, not even bothering to turn to the other party.

Sherlock stood up on tiptoe and caught a glimpse of a blazing red indicator which was to the extreme left on the second row, before the officer pressed a button and released Lestrade from the capsule. Judging by the serene expression on his face, the Detective Inspector ignored the hitch, with philosophical patience waiting out the forced confinement.

 _There are about a hundred indicators and no marks to determine their purpose._ Biting his lip, Sherlock looked at Lestrade with curiosity and then at Mycroft. _It’s interesting._

Mycroft acted confidently and dispassionately, without a single superfluous emotion, but Sherlock knew of his brother all too well and was able to catch a slight dissonance. In his mind flashed the fascinating word ‘secret’, sweet shiver flowed through his nerves. Sherlock grunted and put his hands into his coat pockets, looking forward to the pleasure of new puzzles.

***

They had been walking down boring corridors for a long time. Going up and going down, turning into inconspicuous doors and crossing monotonous halls. They seemed foul the trail, trying to mislead possible pursuers.

“I've always hated this spy stuff,” grumbled Lestrade, finally lost in the maze of corridors. “I can't even imagine what floor we are on now.”

“The eastern wing, the fifth floor, the middle third,” Sherlock said absently, for a moment distracted from his thoughts.

“Excellent! Don't depart from me a single step. We'll get out together.” Lestrade happily clapped his hands, forcing Mycroft to wince at the loud sound that echoed along empty halls. “I've already regretted a hundred times that we didn't use scratch marks on the forks and throw candy wrappers.”

“We’ve arrived.” Mycroft abruptly stopped, opened a door and stepped into a large bright room.

There were three white plastic boards near the entrance, where photos and printouts were hung, covered with small notes. Two men were talking animatedly in a corner of the room, studying a detailed map of London, a few more people were staring at computer screens. A slim girl in a black turtleneck was turning over cardboard folders and documents.

Mycroft introduced his companions to the people present in the room, sat down in the nearest chair, and asked Archer - the head of the group - to summarize the basic essentials of the cases. Getting up from a table, Archer gestured to a couple of empty chairs, offering Sherlock and Lestrade to sit down, and then put his hands behind his back.

“The first victim was Jeffrey Sutherland. He was strangled on a couch in his own living room, and then suspended in a special way on a rope. This was an imitation of a dance marionette of Tamil Nadu. In the victim's blood large doses of alcohol and cocaine were found, under his nails blood and particles of epidermis, on the floor near the couch used condoms. The victim was found by Sutherland’s friend, Donald Wilson, who had been in the apartment at the time of the murder. Experts found that Sutherland had sex within a couple of hours before his death. Condoms were found containing three different sets of DNA. During the interrogation Wilson confirmed his participation in group sex with a strange woman, who had been invited by Sutherland.”

“Do they hold special courses for employees of MI5 where they teach how to choose the most diplomatic wording?” Leaning back in his chair, Sherlock folded his stretched legs at the ankles. “Rape - that's true definition of what happened. She resisted, only a blind man could fail to notice the obvious evidence of this at the crime scene.”

“Wilson denies rape.” Lestrade folded his arms across his chest. “We don't have statements from the girl or direct evidence, so we can't father your assumption of him. Wilson's family has a very toothy lawyer.”

“Just a whisper, and Mycroft's guys will get the insolent beggar to talk, in one stroke.” Sherlock conspiratorially winked at Lestrade. “No daddy can help.”

Mycroft froze.

For a split second it seemed to him that Sherlock knew everything. He knows how much Mycroft, in a moment of weakness, could let in one unusual Inspector from Scotland Yard.

 _It's my fault. I should have better control over myself._ Mycroft pursed his lips. His only hope was that the MI5 officers perceived the phrase as a rough hint of Holmes' influence and not guess about his special favor to Lestrade.

“Wilson insists that he was very drunk and was the first person that left the living room and went to bed. He didn't see or hear any suspicious things, and didn’t wake until the morning.” Lestrade didn't look at Mycroft and pretended not to hear the Sherlock's last comment.

“Wilson's blood test confirmed a high concentration of alcohol.” Archer nodded. “There were no found traces of drugs, no abrasions and scratches on the skin, but I wouldn't discard the version of rape so easily. Wilson should not be excluded from the list of suspects prematurely.”

“Wilson has an ironclad alibi for the time of two subsequent murders.” Lestrade shook his head. “And I very much doubt that Sutherland was strangled by a woman. Though, most likely, she is familiar with the killer.”

“Vengeful boyfriend or a relative?” One of the analysts momently emerged from behind a monitor.

“Based on this set of facts we can confidently say that she voluntarily went to Sutherland's apartment,” said Sherlock in a didactic tone of voice. “The probability of having a boyfriend or husband is too small. Most likely the killer is a blood relative of the girl. Brother or father.”

“All clues lead to this mysterious girl.” Lestrade put his hands behind his head and rocked back on the hind legs of a chair. “When we find her, we'll get the killer and the motive.”

Keeping a visible calm, Mycroft peered through half-closed eyelashes at Lestrade's profile. Tracing his ideal jaw line, it looked as if carved by a skillful sculptor, he held his gaze on a clean-shaven dimple, then slipped along his throat. The sound of blood rushed in his ears and his palms perspired. _Damn!_ Mycroft closed his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek so hard he drew blood. The metallic taste in his mouth was partially extinguished by an excitation.

“Okay, let's move on.” Visualizing his words, Archer stepped up to the next board of photos. “The second victim was Philip McKay. He received a blow to the head and lost consciousness. He then was impaled and died as a result of blood loss. This was an imitation of a stick puppet. On the victim's laptop we found a lot of amateur photographs in BDSM style, made in a specially equipped room of his apartment. The directory contains dates and first names, without last names.”

“Any fingerprints or DNA samples on the session accessories?” asked Mycroft, as his thoughts returned in relative clarity.

“None found.” Lestrade absently ran his hand through his hair. “All accessories were thoroughly cleaned and disinfected. McKay was much more pedantic than...” Lestrade stumbled in mid-sentence, nervously bit his lower lip and stared at the floor. “He was very meticulous in this matter,” he finished awkwardly and dropped his clasped hands to his knees.

At the time, Mycroft would have given a lot to penetrate Lestrade's mind, explore the thoughts and memories, which embarrassed the opinionated Inspector. Avoiding to recognize obvious facts, Mycroft was eager and afraid at the same time of finding himself in another fantasy of this stubborn doll.

Archer interrupted the prolonged pause. “On the victim's clothes in the left shoulder area an artificial hair with glue particles was found. Length of the hair was one inch. Blonde.”

“The killer wears a wig?” The girl in the black turtleneck gaze at the offender's distinguishing characteristics which were written on one of the boards.

“I don't try to assert it. In the two other cases forensics found no artificial hair.”

“Will you be able to identify at least one of the girls depicted in those photos?” murmured Sherlock scowlingly, drumming his fingers on the tabletop, his comment was addressed to no one in particular.

“Unfortunately...” Archer began.

“What are you all doing here? It's a waste of time. So far I have not heard anything new.” Sherlock twitched, intending to get to his feet, but Mycroft's fingers gripped his shoulder, forcing him to stay in place.

“Go on,Archer.”

“The third victim was Nigel Nicholls. As in the two previous cases, no traces of burglary or unlawful entry was found in his flat. There was an imitation of theater puppets again. This time it was marionette with a lot of control strands, 17 pieces. Like McKay he was still alive when the criminal hung him, but he offered no resistance.”

“The pathologist report said that Nicholls died due to cardiac arrest.” Lestrade, finally, coped with his confusion and returned to the discussion. “His attending physician confirmed the existence of a long-term chronic disease.”

“So what’re we investigating here?” Archer pointedly raised his eyebrow. “Outrage over the body of a senior official after his natural death?”

“The pathologist found what he wanted to see.” Sherlock threw Mycroft's arm off, rose from his chair and began pacing corner to corner. “It would be very easy to write off Nicholls death to age and state of health. We must once again carefully examine the body and conduct a blood test to check...”

“Already done.” Archer didn't try to hide a triumphant smirk. “It was a subcutaneous injection of M99 drug, pharmaceutical name is ‘Etorphine’. Most insulin needles have a diameter of about one Point and leave a microscopic dot on the skin after injection, which is very easy to miss. In addition, an injection was made to the victims forearm. It was found later that the killer fixed one of ropes exactly over this spot, causing abrasions which perfectly hid already almost invisible trace of the needle.”

“M99?” Sherlock stopped abruptly. “I read about this drug. A severe immobilizing medicament that is used on large mammals. Four milligrams is enough to immobilize a five-ton elephant. M99 is hard to get, it can't be bought in a regular pharmacy.”

“In our country it's used in some zoos and sometimes in stables,” said the thin girl in a black turtleneck. “There are not many of them around London, verification will take about half a day.”

“Good.” Archer paused for a few seconds. “Prepare a list of objectives and choose three people for this task. They’ll have to find out the conditions of storage of M99, compare the existing content with recorded cases of use, and make a list of employees who have access to the drug.”

“Sherlock explain to us your logical chain, please.” Mycroft rose from his chair with a lazy grace. “What is the connection between the abandoned shop and these three murders?”

“Metalworking machines of the German company ‘Knuth Werkzeugmaschinen’.”

Sherlock looked at Archer, as if hoping that he would pick up the thread of the conversation and continue the story, but the head of the group, however, like the rest of the staff of MI5, had a confused expression on his face.

“Come on!” Sherlock's tone flashed surprise mixed with disbelief. “Didn’t you pay attention to the screws? The killer fixed Nicholls 'golden' [5] thread with them. The peculiar shape and head size, and unusual slot. Used in ancient models of machines before the advent of universal standardization.”

"1:1" Mycroft chuckled mentally, with pleasure noting the victorious gleam in his brother's eyes, but then checked himself. “This is not a university quiz 'Holmes Brothers against MI5'. We work as a team.”

“Well, let's summarize.” Archer went to the middle of the room, attracting everyone's attention. “What is common in all three murders?”

One of the analysts got up from the computer.

“Single men belonged to the upper stratum of society, lived in different parts of London. All three worked in public institutions, but in different departments, and did not overlap in any sort of performance. Personal acquaintance has not been confirmed. Their bodies after death were fixed in a special way: with the obvious, but quite superficial imitation of puppets. In all three cases the killer left the same inscription on the scene of the crime: ‘Stop torturing Annie’.”

“Have you found out who this Annie can be?”

“She can be anyone... his wife, his daughter, his favorite dog, an old woman from next door. I wouldn’t be surprised if it would be the product of the sick imagination of the murderer.”

“What are the assumptions of the psychological portrait of this criminal?”

“With high probability he has no relationship to theater and puppets. He is smart and prudent. He did not leave any obvious traces or fingerprints, killed every time a new way, to produce the visual part of the message he used the materials at hand, but in the latter case brought ropes and fasteners along. There are serious mental disorders. He sincerely believes that the message reaches the recipient, but is unable to contact him personally. In one version he's a religious fanatic trying to get an answer from God.”

“What is the connection between his choice of a doll to imitate and the victim?”

“This is the role in which the murderer represented each victim in everyday life, or something for which he is punishing them. Like most young people Sutherland loved to visit bars, clubbing, dancing on the dance floor - hence the Tamil marionette. McKay practiced bondage sessions and restricted mobility - stick puppet. Nicholls ... he did not have any special preferences, but ... You know there is a saying that gives such a definition: ‘Marionettes are aristocrats of the puppet's world.’ Nicholls was a hereditary aristocrat - powerful, influential, spoiled with own significance.”

“Do you think an invisible puppeteer was hiding even behind Clerk and was controlling his actions?”

“If the killer did not take into account the politically motivated issue and adopted one of philosophical and religious ... then yes. Greek philosophers such as Plato and Aristotle liked to call people wonderful puppets of the Gods and to draw analogies between human and puppet.”

“Interesting thoughts, thanks.” Archer turned to the boards with the investigation materials and frowned, collecting his thoughts. “Detective Inspector, what did you find in the abandoned industrial site?” he asked after a few minutes.

“Cruising for a bruising.” Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, ignoring muffled laughter of the others. “Permanent occupants of this hole refused to cooperate with police. We found a place where the offender supposedly twisted those screws, but it has not brought us any new clues.”

“Clear.” Archer scratched his head, something calculating in his mind. “Give us the exact address and we will send one of our agents there, one which will perfectly fit into the local contingent. Maybe, we'll find out something useful.”

The discussion was over.

MI5 staff dispersed to their seats, returning to their interrupted work. Mycroft furtively glanced at the clock.

Staying longer was senseless and impossible. Half an hour later would begin a meeting of the committee on the Middle East, where Holmes is obliged to be present, but he did not want to leave the room.

He was ready to endlessly watch Lestrade... Max?... This attractive doll with artificial, but surprisingly full and fascinating personality.

Mycroft carefully memorized his moves as Lestrade gestured, explaining something to one of the analysts, and then the funny frowned and barely noticeable lip-synching, flipping through a file on a computer screen. As he smiled friendly at the girl in the black turtleneck, he accidentally collided with her near the printer. How, without the slightest hint of irritation, he gave Sherlock the cup of coffee, which he had just poured for himself, and then went to the coffee machine for a new one. How he blissfully squinted, took the first sip, and slightly loosened his tie.

Sherlock delved into McKay's laptop.

Pointing at the screen, he condescendingly substantiated his statements to a shaggy boy with round glasses and looked like never satisfied, almost happy. Lestrade stuck with the phone. He continued yesterday's interrogation of puppet troupes of London and surrounding counties. There was only one permanent place for puppet shows in London - theater "Little Angel" at Dagmar Passage, and all the staff of the theater had a confirmed alibi.

After reviewing the current situation from all available angles, Mycroft did not find any good reasons for him to stay. Dreary feelings of uselessness flooded him.

Nodding goodbye to Archer, Mycroft turned to leave, but stopped near the door to take another look at his brother and brother's doll.

Staring at the laptop screen, Sherlock thrust out his hand toward Lestrade. Greg pulled out a blank sheet of paper from a stack and put it together with a marker in the outstretched hand. He didn't even stop talking on the phone. Sherlock put the sheet on the table and started to write.

From the outside, this mental connection without words, special gestures or eye contact seemed even more intimate and valuable than a first kiss.

Did Mycroft have a right to deprive his brother of this exciting feeling? Was he strong enough?

There was a sharp pain under his ribs, and Mycroft nearly doubled over. He slowly breathed the air out through his nose as he went out into the hallway and gently closed the door.

He silently vowed to stop using the services of Dollhouse, as soon as security officers found and neutralized the mad puppeteer.

If he would see the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5\. It’s a main thread. Fixed on the area of a top of a marionette’s head.


	6. Chapter 6

“Sir!” Lestrade deftly thrust in between two officers on the go, swinging a photo. “The head of the Guilford puppet troupe has identified one of the McKay's girls. Lucy Chester, she is the younger sister of an artist troupe member named Simon Chester. In the words of the head, Simon hasn't shown up at work for ten days, his home phone goes unanswered, the mobile is not available. Should I ask for SCO19[6], or you are sending MI5 officers for him?”

“We’ll cope on our own.” Archer looked from the photo to Lestrade and nodded approvingly. “Thank you, Detective Inspector. Good job.”

***

They knocked at the door, but nobody answered. There was no sound coming from the Simon Chester’s flat.

It took them about twenty seconds to slip the door lock and then men in black body armor quietly got inside. On the floor of the living room they found the body of a man lying face down, surrounded by cigarette butts, dried food debris and empty bottles of alcohol. The shabby walls of the room were covered with dolls. There were strewn about wood pieces, crumpled drawings, tubes of paint and tools of different calibers on a workbench.

The team leader took off his glove, bent over the body and put his finger to the carotid artery. “Alive.” He turned Chester over, pulled his upper eyelid and studied both eyes in turn. “Drunk to unconsciousness.” Straightening up, he waved to his subordinates. “Take him out.”

***

Health workers from the special department of MI5 had done the impossible. Chester appeared in the interrogation room within a half hour after their arrival. He was angry and perfectly sane. Hugging himself, he sat down on the edge of a hard chair and froze. Shadows of painful spasms periodically passed through his swollen crimson face.

“Good morning, Mr. Chester.” Lestrade stepped into the room, holding a thin folder. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

Chester didn't respond to the greeting, didn't even look up, only clenched his shoulders with fingers harder.

“Tell me, do you know a man named Philip McKay?” Lestrade put a photo on the table.

“No,” Chester rasped.

“Do you know who is depicted in this photo?” Lestrade took a picture of Lucy out of his folder.

“My sister.” Chester looked at the picture without any interest.

“Do you know where this photo was taken?”

“No.”

“Who torments Annie?”

“Who is this Annie?”

“Do you stay in touch with your sister?”

“No.”

“When did you talk to her last time?”

“She called me six months ago, maybe a year.”

“Where did you spend the last ten days?”

“At home.”

“And didn’t go anywhere?”

“I went to a shop for scotch.” Chester grinned unpleasantly. “You fucked up my vacation, I'll take you to the court.”

“Your boss said that you stopped going to work without warning. And you haven't taken a vacation.”

“Whatever. I needed to rest.”

“Who torments Annie?”

“I don't know any Annie.” Chester grimaced in irritation. “What do you want from me?”

“Just to talk.” Lestrade sat down on a nearby chair. “You're not surprised with this entourage of photos. Do you know that your sister is practicing BDSM?”

“She's acted like a pervert from childhood.”

“Was she often bullied?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you have to protect your sister from her mates, from casual acquaintances?”

“I've told you, we don't communicate.” Chester opened his fingers and clapped his hand on the table. “Never did. I have no idea what and with whom she deals.”

“Did you kill Philip McKay?”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Who torments Annie?”

“Who the hell is Annie?” spluttered Chester.

“Can anyone confirm that you've spent ten days in your flat?”

“My kids.” Leaning on the table, Chester squeezed his temples between his hands. “My naughty dolls.”

“Are you talking about puppets?” Lestrad said condescendingly and Chester nodded. “But any people, living sane people can confirm your alibi?”

Chester raised his head and fixed Lestrade with a stare. “They are alive. The artist puts his soul into each of his creations. But you are terribly afraid to admit it, because otherwise you will have to take responsibility for all pain and suffering that humanity inflicts on dolls from century to century.”

With crystal clarity Lestrade realized that he had already heard it, or maybe read... thought and reasoned about similar things, with similar words. But where and with who? As he tried, he couldn’t recall the details.

***

Later in the afternoon Mycroft coped with urgent cases and reappeared on the fifth floor of Thames House to personally listen to Archer’s report.

The interview with Chester had failed miserably, and MI5 officers didn't find anything suspicious in his flat.

Lestrade spoke with Lucy Chester, and she confirmed her brother's words. Lucy remembered Philip McKay very vaguely, called him ‘a passing fad’ and had never met Sutherland or Nicholls.

Despite mental disorders and lack of an alibi, Simon Chester did not follow the role of calculating killer. Neighbors and pretty saleswoman from a nearby shop confirmed that Chester was drinking hard for weeks, ignoring the outside world, hiding in his dim dirty flat and creating puppets. It seemed incredible that he came to London, and unnoticed by anyone killed three people, but Archer decided to err on the safe side and keep Chester in a ward for the next couple of days.

Sherlock along with a MI5 expert examined the structure of the hard disk from McKay's laptop and hunted out the directory, whose date of the removal coincided with the day when McKay was murdered. They succeeded in recovering some pictures taken six months ago. There was depicted another girl, the name of the directory was 'Irene'.

***

“Mr. Holmes, you have to look at this.” Archer handed to Mycroft a sheet of paper dotted with numbers, one line of which was highlighted in yellow marker and in the field was two letters written by hand 'DH'. “A week before his death Nicholls called the Dollhouse from his mobile.”

“Dollhouse? What is it?” Sherlock perked.

“An exclusive brothel,” Mycroft lied before Archer had time to open his mouth. “Have you checked phone calls of the other two victims?”

“Of course.” Archer nodded, trying to hide his confusion. “No calls to the Dollhouse from Sutherland's or McKay's phones during the last quarter.”

“Perhaps this call is also irrelevant.” Mycroft shrugged. “I'll request information from Miller through my channels. The official inquiry will take too long.”

“So you are an honored client of a brothel, dear brother?” Sherlock didn't miss the opportunity for a quirk. “Maybe you are even friends with the 'Madam'?”

For some reasons Mycroft glanced at the silent Lestrade, and then looked Sherlock up and down with cold stare. “I've always thought that you weren t interested in my sex life.” He snapped dryly. “From now on try to protect me from such disappointments.” Turning on his heels, Mycroft slowly left the room.

***

“Sir, I've consolidated and processed reports on the use of ‘Etorphine’.” One of the analysts got up from the computer. “There is something curious. Owner of a racecourse in Epsom Charles Fly can't unequivocally confirm the use of 'M99'. He says that they've opened a new bottle about half a year ago, when one of his stallions seriously broke his legs, but now the drug in the vial is substantially less remaining than it should be, given the weight and dimensions of the horse. I've taken a deeper look into files of Fly's relatives and found out that his brother Tom has been let out early from Wandsworth prison three and a half weeks ago.

“What he was locked up for?”

“Fraud with parliamentary overheads. He was suspected of stealing more than a hundred thousand pounds, but they were only able to prove and condemned for twenty thousand. He was sentenced to two years imprisonment with confiscation of property, released a year later for good behavior.”

“And how do you think some light-fingered financier can be connected with our investigation?”

“Before his arrest Tom Fly worked directly subordinate to McKay.”

“I agree this coincidence requires verification.” Archer scratched his head and got up from the table. “I'll go to Epsom and blow the cobwebs away at one.”

***

“Mr. Holmes, you do know, we can't disclose details of our clients.” Miller dolefully wrung his hands. “This is confidential information.”

“I don’t.” Mycroft shook his head. “Your client is dead and I want to get acquainted with the contract concluded between him and Dollhouse.”

“Would you like, for example, if Dollhouse disclosed to a third party information about your contract?”

“If I died?” Mycroft raised his eyebrow skeptically. “I wouldn’t care.”

“You are destroying my business.” Miller nervously jumped up from his chair. “People will no longer use the services of Dollhouse, if they knew what we disclose their secrets right and left.”

“We let your corporation into the territory of the United Kingdom with a few obligatory conditions, one of which reads as follows 'Upon first request provide to public authorities information which required for investigation and not to interfere with the accomplishment of justice'. I personally oversaw your case so I thoroughly remember the final version of the agreement. You have no choice, either you give me the necessary information or... links with international terrorists will pop up, or we find out that you sell British secrets to foreign intelligence services. Believe me, I'll be able to convince all of your most influential clients that Dollhouse is a direct threat to national security. You won't just get thrown out of the country, but will be convicted and sentenced to the highest measure of punishment. ”

Miller's eyes flashed with outright hatred for an instant. Snatching up his phone, he tapped one of the extensions. “Dani? Mr. Holmes is heading down to you. Give him every possible assistance. Provide any information he requires.”

***

Archer came out of the car on a gravel driveway and addressed to high stodgy man. “Mr. Fly? I need to ask you some additional questions about access to the medicine cabinet with 'Etorphine'. My colleagues have already interviewed you this morning.” He briefly showed his fake ID.

“I am in trouble, aren’t I?” Fly threw up his hands in frustration. “I am not even aware that the use of this drug is so strictly controlled by the state. Let's go into the house, we live on the opposite side of the racecourse.”

***

The more Mycroft pored over the details of the contract between Nicholls and Dollhouse the more he felt disgusted. _Sick bastard._

“Dani, what does a letter grade mean in the contract?”

“It’s degree of risk, any physical or psychological risk to the Actives during performing a specific task. An analyst examines in detail the files for each new client, unconfirmed rumors, incidents with his participation and then assigns a category, one out of ten. Subsequently, a category may be changed based on the analysis of the client's wishes and during drawing up every new agreement. Of course, a category is never reduced even for good behavior.” Dani laughed, catching onto his own words amusing analogy. “If in the course of an agreement occurs some incident which wasn't agreed to in advance...”

“An incident?”

“A physical trauma or an injury, or intense psychological violence. Then the Dollhouse attending physician has the right to increase a category on the basis of documented damages.

“But are there any clients who were denied services because of too high a category?”

“As far as I know they aren't. It's just a question of price. If some client has specific fantasies and are ready to pay for them, he will receive everything he wants.”

Mycroft shuddered inwardly.

Officially calling themselves the progressive entertainment company, Dollhouse turned out to be poison which had already spoiled far from perfect British high society.

“You don’t mind that Dollhouse with your developments cultivates human depravity?”

“I don’t.” Turning away from the monitor, Dani dug his fingers with whitened knuckles into the arms of his chair. “I just do my job. And if it comes to that, before I signed the contract I knew what moral assignment I'd have to go for the sake of research. In fact each client of Dollhouse is a pervert in varying degrees. They want to realize their forbidden desires in any way, most of them are illegal and immoral, and I stopped estimating them in less than a year after my initial appearance in the Dollhouse. But who am I telling.”

“What you're hinting at?” Mycroft's eyes narrowed dangerously, his voice rang with steel.

“God forbid, I haven't hinted to anybody about anything since long ago.” Dani got off his chair, went to the fridge a and took out a bottle of mineral water. “I'll tell you a story, if you let me.” Unscrewing the cap he drank straight from the bottle. Mycroft silently nodded, and Dani spoke again. “At the beginning of last year we had a harmless at first glance client, who was given the lowest category. In my memory no one of the previous clients could boast of this category. The point of order was simple and unpretentious. An Active had to play the role of a guilty wife, humbly beg forgiveness from her perfect spouse. She had to be broken and lose the last remnants of self-esteem. He ordered this character many times, I once calculated at my leisure and the result was '96'. Every time he requested the same Active, her name was Jay. He rejected her again and again and gladly repeated 'everything is over'. Jay was crawling on her knees in front of him, choked with tears, and he enjoyed her suffering. He never raised a hand against her, didn't even raised his voice but somewhere in the vicinity of the seventieth - eightieth cycle a strange distortion of the psyche began to emerge in Jay. It prevailed over her temporal image, disturbing the doll so she couldn't work within the specified conditions.” Dani thoughtfully pursed his lips and looked down. “I couldn't convince Miller to abandon the client. Eventually Jay had completely lost control of her mind and couldn't be corrected. I had to discard her in the Attic.”

Sticky tentacles of fear slid along his spine and Mycroft shrugged. _Selfish idiot!_ Issuing its verdict, his subconscious and rational part of his brain aggrievedly moved aside.

Somewhere deep within his body began a boil of impotent rage, threatening to break out at any moment. With painful clarity his memory flashed the expression of despair, that increasingly occurred on Lestrade's face in the last few days.

“You've sent Lestr ... Max on someone else's task during the term of my contract!” Mycroft suddenly blurted. “You didn't even bother to add false memories. He didn't know where the bruises on his wrists came from!”

“All claims should be sent to Miller.” Dani phlegmatically spread his hands. “It's he who enters into contracts and assigns tasks. And about the memories, I didn't have time to correct the Imprint. It was a hectic day.”

There was a long pause.

Dani's distracted gaze wandered along the multicolored wires that enveloped the room. Mycroft was analyzing the situation in the light of new information received.

The rhythmical buzz of a fan gradually reduced the overall intensity, cooled thoughts which were jumping from one subject to another, it calmed the nerves.

“Show me the file of an Active named Karen. She is in the latest Nicholls agreement,” asked Mycroft frostily, trying to cope with his emotions.

Dani put his water bottle on a kitchen table, went to a console and with a few keystrokes put the required file on a monitor. Barely glancing at the opened image, Mycroft understood. It was Irene, Sherlock restored her picture with McKay's laptop.

“I need a list of all clients who ever ordered that Active,” said Mycroft with a tone that brooked no objection. “and the details of each order.”

“Are you kidding me?” Dani snorted sarcastically. “This is one of our most popular dolls. She has been working here for four and a half years, sometimes she has several orders in a single day. You'll sink in that amount of information.”

“It's not your concern,” Mycroft said coldly. “Make a selection from your database and copy it to a protected data storage device, I'll wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6\. Specialist Crime and Operations Specialist Firearms Command is a Specialist Crime & Operations branch within Greater London's Metropolitan Police Service.


	7. Chapter 7

“Mr. Fly, why didn't you say that your brother Tom was recently released from prison?” Archer cautiously sipped hot tea, brought by Fly's worried wife.

“I didn't think that information was relevant.” With a sigh Fly stroked his crown of thinning hair. “Tom had lived in London before... well, you know... before he was arrested. When he got out of prison, he came to me. He had nowhere to go since the state confiscated his flat but he was never interested in horses and horse racing. I never saw him in the stables and what's more I didn't give him the key to a veterinary medicine chest.”

“All this time, since his release from prison, Tom spent in your home?”

“Not really.” Fly glanced at his wife as for support and she soothingly patted him on his back. “On the third day Tom asked for my old Jaguar and went to London. He said he didn't want to burden us, that he would try to find a suitable job and then rent a flat somewhere on the outskirts of London. He almost never appeared since then, but today he arrived, so you can talk to him personally.”

“What luck.” Archer smiled gratefully and put aside his cup of tea. “Where can I find him?”

***

Tom Fly seemed nothing like a man who stole or would be able to steal a hundred thousand pounds. Archer was a good judge of people. During his work in the department of internal investigations he had seen enough of thieving employees from state institutions.

Skittish, homely, helpful.

Tom fussily asked, "Do you want a cup of tea?", "Or coffee?", "Perhaps something stronger?" then finally perched on the edge of the sofa, tightly gripped his knees and stared at the floor.

Archer questioningly looked at the elder Fly.

Charles hastened to explain. “Tom has Asperger's syndrome. He is uncomfortable in society or with strangers. Tom maybe you should get ...?”

“Not necessary!” Tom snapped and with a visible effort looked up. “I can handle it.”

“Don't worry they won't incriminate you in anything.” Charles sat on the arm of the couch and gently put his arm around Tom’s hunched shoulders. “It's just an ordinary formality.”

***

Mycroft returned to Thames House together with Archer. He met him near the side employee entrance and immediately hastened to clarify a few points.

“Are Sherlock and Lestrade still here?” He asked, confidently pacing near Archer through echoing corridor.

“Of course,” confirmed Archer without hesitation. “No one in the group except you and me has the necessary level of authority to get them out of the building.”

“I ask you don't let them out without my permission,” Mycroft said pointedly and then paused.

A minute later Archer nodded, he hadn't waited for an explanation of this strange request.

“Did Miller say anything useful?”

“He gave me a list of clients for one of the dolls which was ordered by Nicholls and by McKay at different times. I'm 93 per cent sure that she is the girl who was raped by Sutherland. It will be necessary to review the list and try to deduce the killer. Keep only the officers with the highest category of access and send out all the others. If Dollhouse is really involved with these murders, I want a limited number of people to know about it.”

“What about your brother and the Detective Inspector? Maybe we’ll just leave them in the room and move into my office with a couple of analysts?”

“It’s tempting offer, but no. They will stay with us. Just warn your officers that in the presence of Sherlock they mustn’t speak about the true nature of Dollhouse. The later he finds out about it, the better.”

***

“What a popular girl!” an analyst admiringly whistled, estimated by the number of database records.

“And what's so wonderful?” murmured Sherlock, stepping closer. “Everyone's fingerprints all over her for sure.”

Everyone male except Mycroft synchronically shrugged.

“In the first place we need to confirm that all three victims ordered this girl.” Archer pointedly looked at the officer, recalled that there were same unauthorized in the room. “Go ahead!”

There was a brief beep of a mobile. Archer read the text and stepped to the blackboard with investigation materials. “I’ve got a message from my agent, a visual description of the man who twisted the screws.” He picked up a marker and started a new column to the right of the previously written potential distinguishing characteristics of the murderer. “His height is about six feet. He has short dark brown hair and brown eyes.”

“Chester has light-brown hair and blue eyes.” Lestrade walked over to the coffee machine and poured a cup of coffee that went cold long ago. “Although we haven’t considered the existence of an accomplice.”

“There is no indication of his presence,” Sherlock said. “Is there anything unique? Because we have about one-sixth of the male population of six-foot tall brunettes with brown eyes.”

“Of course.” Archer put the marker aside, grabbed his mobile and began to read aloud. “He constantly wears on his left hand a miniature glove puppet, manipulates it, and adds voices for it as if giving a show. He dresses casually. His style of communication is rude. He appeared at the site a few times, familiar with the local leader named Undertaker, responds to the nickname Punch.”

“Are we going to bust the hell out of the leader?” asked Lestrade.

“We are.” Archer came to the desk and picked up the IP-phone. “The only question is how much time we'll need to find him and to draw him out.” He dialed the extension, briefly spoke with his deputy and put the phone down.

“Sir!” The analyst raised his hand, attracting everyone's attention and scratched his head in bewilderment. “Nicholls had made an agreement with Dollhouse the week before his death. Specified in the contract the date of execution of the order coincides with the day of death. McKay made an agreement in advance, almost a month earlier. The date of execution was six months ago when the photos were taken. A surname, Sutherland which I haven't found in the database.”

“Look for his friend Donald Wilson,” Sherlock advised. “and besides him the financial wheeler-dealer... Tom Fly. Did investigators find out what he blew a hundred thousand pounds on?”

“No. No trace of the stolen money was found,” the analyst said over his shoulder, typing the next request on a keyboard.

“Well, certainly not for prostitutes,” Lestrade chuckled. “He transferred money to some anonymous offshore accounts and forgot about them for the next few years. Even an elite prostitute can’t cost so much money.”

“That's it!” The analyst gleefully exclaimed. “Wilson ordered the girl at nine o'clock on the day of the murder of Sutherland. Rape was agreed upon early on.”

“They bought a prostitute to play rape?” Lestrade grimaced in disgust. “Perverts.”

“I've not found agreements with surname Fly.”

“Just as I thought,” Archer nodded. “This nervous nerd wouldn't shake your hand until he apologizes three times first. I'm afraid to imagine what he has suffered in Wandsworth.”

“Maybe McKay stole money?” Lestrade said. “And when Fly was released from prison, he decided to get even?”

“And hired a killer? In such a situation why did he kill the other two? Why ask not to torture some unknown Annie? So far, we've found out there's only one connection between these three murders and Fly rather plausibly denies his involvement.”

“Then why these three and why now? The girl has thousands of orders. What is the difference between these dead men and the other clients?”

“A category in a contract.” Mycroft shook an invisible speck of dust off the sleeves of his jacket.

They had already forgotten that elder Holmes was still in the room.

“How is this insane tramp connected with this girl?” Lestrade couldn't calm down. “He's unlikely a client. Where would he get the money for an expensive prostitute? Maybe an ex-client. Maybe a relative, but why wouldn't she help him financially if she earns so much?”

“I made inquiries. Her closest living relative is an aunt-cousin. She has been living in France for a quarter of a century.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow and looked expressively at Archer.

“This is elementary. We need to question the girl,” Sherlock muttered peevishly.

“Impossible.” Mycroft shook his head. “She's left the country.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Judging by the dates of her last contracts, she had been ordered for two months in advance.”

“99 percent,” Mycroft lied. “My people found her using the records from cameras and in passenger lists. She left yesterday evening from Heathrow. MI6 is trying to find her through their own channels, with no success yet.”

“I wonder who she ran away from.” Sherlock clasped his hands together and pressed his forehead against his fingers. “From her work or from the maniac-puppeteer?”

“What's the difference?” Lestrade murmured sadly. “In her place anyone would run away. By the way has anyone seen where my cell phone is?”

***

It took three and a half hours for them to find Undertaker and persuade him to collaborate. A small team came to watch the interrogation. Archer left his colleagues in the next room near the monitor, deciding to personally talk to the prisoner.

Undertaker claimed that he had not recognized the victims, had never heard Panch's real name, and first saw him in Wandsworth, where he was serving a sentence for robbery.

Punch had a reputation as a cruel and vindictive joker.

He always twisted something in his left hand and liked to animate gloves that they were given at the time of working. He wrapped a napkin or a handkerchief around his middle finger in a special way, drew a face on it and started criticizing the prison authorities, skillfully imitating cartoon sonorous voices.

Undertaker was released from prison eleven months ago. He was very surprised when Punch unexpectedly announced in his presence last weekend. He still gave the impression of an evil and unpredictable man, only now instead of cloth on his left hand he settled down a new glove doll Judy.

Punch demanded nothing and asked no questions. He climbed around the workshop busily from top to bottom, picked up an old rope and a handful of screws. In the end he performed on the lid of a tin tank some philosophical sketch about unfortunate love and left to thunderous applause.

Archer left the Undertaker 'for his own good' in the chamber. The thief was too nervous at the mere mention of the cheery puppeteer.

***

Punch yawned and stretched with a crunch. The clock on the panel flickered and showed four zeros.

“She has long been asleep,” sympathetically squeaked Judy, sitting on the steering wheel, and sighed like a human. “You waste your time for nothing.”

Punch suspected that the police had already taken up his trail, he could feel their hot breath on the back of his neck but he wanted to see Annie one more time. One last time. For whatever it was worth.

He might even have time to kick away another one more torturer from her life.

The first big raindrops fell on the windshield. Punch opened the window a little, letting the shivering autumn in.

“Let me know if it gets cold,” he ordered, and Judy obediently nodded.

_Punch never liked to work._

_The other one was working for him. One, who liked spending time in the company of numbers and payment documents, sitting up late at night in an empty dark office._

_“Remove this strange transaction from the report, we have a discrepancy in the final amounts because of it,” Philip McKay casually said._

_“But…”_

_“Remove it.” McKay stopped for a second and pointedly raised his eyebrow. “And I'll thank you with a gift, which you have long dreamed of.”_

_So Punch met his Annie, a fragile girl with huge childishly naive eyes and full lips._

_Punch fell in love with her at first sight._

Steel doors of an underground garage slowly went up. Punch emerged from his memories and peered into the opening aperture.

A doll was always transported in a black blacked-out van. It wasn't possible to find out who is inside before the doll was handed to the client but Punch knew Annie's Handler face.

“It’s him!” Judy whispered and fearfully slid on Punch laps.

“Heh and you didn't believe me.” Punch turned the key in the ignition and drove off.

_Punch liked pampering his Annie._

_He made each of their meetings into a holiday. He prepared meals, lovely surprises and fun entertainment._

_Punch was afraid that someone would steal his Annie, offend or hurt her by chance. People are unpredictable creatures. He didn't present her to anyone, didn't take out from the house and even didn't tell his elder brother that at last he had met his true love._

_When all the accumulated savings were dried up, Punch persuaded ‘another one’ to act like McKay. There is nothing to be ashamed of. He will do anything for Annie. He wanted to see her smile, she always smiled so sunny._

_And then he was arrested._

Punch slowed at a traffic light.

“Keep a distance, at night the road is almost empty,” Judy muttered, furtively looking out the windshield.

“Don't teach a fish to swim,” Punch said and took a deep breath, trying to calm his agitated heart.

_Punch didn't immediately run to Annie after he was released from prison. He had nothing to offer her so he decided to delay their meeting until he gets on his feet at least. He took up a job search. On the one rainy day Punch went to an interview in a small office, settled in the outskirts of Richmond. It was difficult to find a good place to work in his specialty within London with his record of conviction._

_Suddenly, he saw a familiar black van._

_Punch stopped at the curb and was arguing with Judy for a few minutes, she knew nothing about Annie and angrily demanded to go further, and then..._

_The Handler came out from the open door. He carried a slim girl in his arms, wrapped in a man's jacket. Punch noticed torn tights and looked upward past the girl’s broken swollen knees. He was surprised at a crimson bruise, flashed from under the suit fabric and stared in disbelief at the tear-stained face with smeared cosmetics._

_“Annie!” Punch whispered and quickly jumped out of the car, but the black van had already picked up speed and disappeared around the corner._

_The door to the flat was unlocked._

_Punch crept up to the sofa and without a moment's hesitation strangled the beast, who dared to offend his Annie._


	8. Chapter 8

“Make a call to the chief overseer of Wandsworth. He or his staff must be able to recall such an odd man,” Archer ordered when he returned to the common room.

“Maybe that's where Fly met Punch,” said Mycroft. “But first of all we have to make sure that these two men aren't the same person. Do you have a photo of Fly to show it to Undertaker?”

“We can take it out of the file, but I don't see the point.” Archer pursed his lips. “Having this syndrome in his medical history, Fly can't be uncivil to anyone.”

“And we still have no motive.” Lestrade absently patted his suit looking for, but not finding his cell phone again and folded his arms across his chest.

“We don’t know the motive but that isn't an unambiguous refutation of the very fact of its existence,” Mycroft said impassively. He felt as though Max's phone, was like a weight of two stones, pulling down the inner pocket of his jacket.

“You are an idiot! Your brain is smaller than an amoeba’s!” Sherlock shouted suddenly and pulled the analyst from the desk. “I would have forbidden people like you to work at MI5 even as a cleaner.”

“What happened?” Archer looked from the discouraged analyst to Sherlock and back.

“This idiot limited the selection based on the of the beginning of the year date.” Sherlock stared at the monitor, tapping his fingers on the desk surface, as if trying to hurry up the computer. “Of course! Here.” He grimly nodded at the screen. “The first time Tom Fly entered into a contract for Dollhouse services was two years ago, the last one was a week before his arrest. It's a very convincing connection with the three victims. Don't you think?”

***

_With McKay everything was different in a way._

_Punch came to him in the hope that the former chief would help with his job search._

_“I always need a trusted man.” McKay nodded and disappeared into the depths of his office, leaving Punch in the living room._

_On the coffee table _laying on_ an open laptop._

_Against his will, Punch stared at a slide show of photos of pretty girls flashing on the screen. In one of them he recognized Annie and strange pain grew in his chest. The girl's body was limp in ropes, tormented and lifeless. Her graceful throat was squeezed with terrible collar. Punch explained McKay what it feels like to be a puppet in the hands of a heartless puppet master, while the 'other one', who loved peace and numerical patterns, laughed and happily shook his fists. For some reason he thought McKay was the cause of all his suffering._

“Why haven't you tried to steal Annie?” Judy asked gently when Punch parked a hundred feet from the black van. “You could take her far, far away, where no one would dare to hurt her.”

“The other one explained that I had no chance.” Punch laughed bitterly. “Her almighty masters know where their dolls are at any moment. It's impossible to escape from them.”

***

“Sir, the main overseer of Wandsworth confirmed our guesses,” the analyst said after he hung up. “The nickname Punch stuck to Tom Fly a week after he arrived at prison. But the entire staff together claimed that Fly was one of the most peaceful and untroubled prisoners.”

“Even I was misled by his simulated awkwardness and vulnerability,” muttered Archer.

“You are misled too easily,” Sherlock snorted. “I hope the police have been looking for the Jaguar and that you have interrogated his parole officer. Maybe the police know the address of the rented flat.”

“Mr. Holmes.” Archer took Mycroft aside. “It's necessary to warn Dollhouse so they won't send the doll on the task until we catch the criminal. Or we'll have another corpse.”

“I've sent four Special Forces officers to protect the Active.” Mycroft smiled wryly. “I'm sure if anything goes wrong they will keep control of the situation.”

Mycroft's phone rang. Mycroft took it out, apologized to Archer and went out into the corridor.

“Mr. Holmes, is it a stupid joke?” Judging by the voice someone had made Miller very angry. “Immediately give his phone back to Max and get him out of the building. The Handler should've taken him three hours ago.”

“Your greed will eventually destroy you,” Mycroft said coldly. “Firstly, you sent the Active to another engagement during the term of my contract and then suddenly you start to complain that I didn't return the doll at the stipulated time. You should moderate your ardor and prolong the contract. I'll let Max go as soon as I see fit.” Mycroft hung up, he didn't allow Miller to object.

The phone almost immediately rang again.

“Sir, Fly's car stopped near the house of the client. We are ready to start the capture.”

“Fine. Do it.” Mycroft looked at his watch and wearily ran his hand over his face.

***

That evening Punch was sitting in the company of Judy, just like now, near the Nicholls house and was waiting for Annie.

Heads or tails.

If she comes out of the building with a smile or at least without tears or visible signs of violence, then the client will live. If not, he will have only himself to blame.

Hunters crept very close. Their gazes were burning into Punch's back.

“Give me a little more time. Please,” he whispered silently, wanting to see his Annie again.

Unfortunately, the supreme Puppeteer ignored his last request. Black shadows slipped to the old Jaguar from two sides.

“Goodbye,” muttered Punch and pulled out a gun stolen from Undertaker. The other one had told him what they would do with Punch for killing three people. He admitted that couldn't return to prison again.

“Wait,” Judy squealed.

The shot broke the silence and cut off her desperate cry.

***

Mycroft gritted his teeth. It was a real failure.

The main suspect was dead, and there was no direct evidence pointing to his involvement in the murders. Useless, that was how Mycroft had long felt.

A random link in this strange chain of events, the glove puppet in a bright crimson dress was staring accusingly at him out of the box with material evidence.

A white artificial hair, discovered on McKay's clothes, perfectly matched the hair of the doll, and served as the only proof that Tom Fly was in the victim's flat. More amusing was the fact that Simon Chester knew Fly, but none of the team thought to ask the puppet master about his clients.

Before his arrest Tom Fly went to a special group for psychological assistance for people with Asperger's syndrome, where experienced psychologists taught him special tricks for overcoming his shyness and fear. It was there that he first put a funny doll on his hand and spoke without hesitation.

Fly went to Chester several times for new assistants.

They had a long conversation about the nature and purpose of the puppets, Chester even tried to teach Fly to lead a very simple marionette, but his student didn't reach significant results in this art.

Upon learning of the death of Fly, Chester insistently asked to give him 'orphaned kiddies'.

“They will die without caring hands,” he muttered, nervously fingering the neck of his faded dirty T-shirt.

Mycroft went outside and thoughtfully took a deep breath of the cold night air.

His heart was restless.

Sherlock, without saying goodbye, rushed to the side of the carriageway, Mycroft even didn't look back. He will be taken care of. A few hours ago Mycroft ordered increased security on his brother. His intuition said that in the coming days a strong storm would break out in the country, sweeping away anyone who didn't have time to take cover.

Mycroft pulled out the mobile and silently handed it to Lestrade.

And for a moment he honestly tried to imagine a world in which he could leave Lestrade beside and forget about his artificiality.

Love him without regard of the circumstances and not be afraid to be loved in return.

Believe in the true nature of their feelings. Trust the most valuable. Discard doubt.

Live, not exist.

 _Sentimental nonsense._ Mycroft grimaced mentally.

If such a world exists somewhere, it would be in another reality, another universe, other circumstances. Certainly a completely different Mycroft, who was able to anticipate a similar deadlock situation.

But why is he hesitating like a teenager in love?

All things must pass.

“Goodbye, Inspector.” Mycroft shook his hand and strode toward his office car.

Along the way he didn't look back.

Mycroft sat inside the black car, pressed his head against the soft headrest and closed his eyes tightly.

They burned, it seemed like somebody threw a handful of red pepper in his face. Under his eyelids throbbed the silhouette of a lonely man, who stood frozen on the edge of the sidewalk.

***

Having read the last page of the report, Mycroft closed the file and slowly ran his hand over his face, as if trying to erase the fatigue.

It had been seven days, eighteen hours and fourteen minutes from the last time he saw Lestrade.

A week ago Mycroft began a large-scale campaign against Dollhouse, trying to discredit their well-established image in the minds of the most influential people in the UK.

An accidentally phrase dropped there, a pre-dosed truth here.

On the desk of the chairman of the Legislative Assembly were waiting drafts of several documents, which would, in the future, allow to radically resolve such questions, but for now... Mycroft was weaving a giant web of intrigue, carefully monitoring every step. He tried not to startle Miller ahead of time and didn't want to leave him any chance of escape.

Working through such a difficult political trap helped Mycroft keep his mind on its toes, not letting him slip into depression and melancholy.

The office intercom system rang quietly.

“Sir, Mr. Fraser [7] is here.”

“Let him in.” Mycroft stood up from the desk and tidied his jacket. His face showed nothing.

“Good evening.” Fraser stepped over the threshold, grinned happily and grabbed Mycroft's hand, depicting a scene of 'the meeting of the true friends'. “I happened to be nearby so I decided to come by.”

Mycroft always despised this unceremonious cowardly toady, but the true manifestation of the emotions was considered as a flagrant lack of professionalism. So he just nodded, responding to the greeting, and gently pulled his hand from the other's grip.

“You are extremely difficult to catch in one place,” said Fraser with a slight bitterness in his voice. “Maybe, let's have dinner? I need to discuss a very sensitive issue with you.” He impressively arched his blonde eyebrow.

Over the last four years, almost every Saturday Fraser drank scotch in the company of Miller, and a ‘sensitive issue' certainly would be connected with Dollhouse.

Well, it will be interesting to listen to the subtle hints once again, or even threats in his address, though Fraser would hardly be able to surprise him with original phrases.

Keep your friends very close and your enemies even closer.

“With pleasure.” Mycroft took his coat out of the closet and held the door open, while Fraser went out. “I've reserved a table at ‘The Capital’.”

***

In the first half hour everything went pretty smoothly.

Mycroft enjoyed the food and soft music to the accompaniment of Fraser's lively chatter, who kept beating around the bush, talking about a recent trip to France, and not daring to go directly to the discussion of the 'sensitive issue'.

During the years of civil service Mycroft gained experience in small talk so he easily kept up the conversation and in parallel continued to polish details of the plan of deporting Dollhouse abroad.

He also carefully drove away the memories of Lestrade.

Today Mycroft's thoughts strove to slip off the inferences to the tangled jungle of philosophical reflection, without any practical application in public affairs. Most of his associative chains eventually resulted in attempts to analyze interpersonal relationships and causes of human attachments, and because he had a lack of facts... analysis rather quickly lost its rational component.

Ironically, Mycroft had little interest in research in this area, which Dani operated so easy. The involvement of the brain, hormone levels, overall reaction. Much more curious was the question: ‘why-this-man?’ for which scientists haven't found the right answer yet.

_Why do you _search for_ a meeting with him? You want to be close, to have privileges in his personal space. You are afraid to lose him, though you haven't even had him. What's so special about him? When one after another are all pragmatic reasons: money, power, prestige, comfort discarded, there remains only the question._

_Universal response doesn’t exist. Everyone instinctively knows only his own version, but is not able to articulate it even to oneself._

_What are the criteria of this subtle check? How, after a few seconds of the first meeting is a preliminary verdict brought? Where is the threshold at which your body switches to emergency mode for the purpose of a single task: 'to acquire this man whatever the cost'? And then the hours, days, months and even years pass away but the desire to stay close doesn't disappear. What is it all about?_

_Well, certainly not in appearance. Although good looks is a significant factor, it helps attract at first attention. That's just over time people change... get fat, bald and grow old, after all. The acceptance of person's appearance is more a consequence than a cause of love for him. But what happens with a tragedy? A loved one has lost his arm, leg, eye... receives a scar across his face. Will it be a reason to stop loving him? Definitely not._

Mycroft thought back on the cold overcast day of the first meeting with DI. He had tried, but couldn't separate two parts of Lestrade, separate his identity from the physical shell. Because he still thought about him and wanted him in his entirety, without any reservations, forgiving his weaknesses and shortcomings, but not having enough strength to forget Lestrade’s puppet nature.

Damned rational thinking.

Sofia Holmes inviolately believed in fate and destiny.

Brothers listened to mother's monologues, united by a common idea 'Our life is a foregone conclusion', and curved their lips sarcastically, becoming remarkably similar to each other in their disbelief.

Mycroft reviewed his past convictions and could now assume that something or someone could exist outside of available knowledge. Someone, who can subtly influence people's lives, because the level of accidents and coincidences in Mycroft's life inexorably approached the critical point.

If destiny does exist, Mycroft would like to see that book, on the pages of which he was destined to struggle with feelings to the unusual doll. But even better if he would be able to punch that bastard whose hand wrote these lines in a face.

Life is an unfair thing. Mycroft Holmes long ago has learned that common truth.

The waiter brought the dessert. For the first time during last month Mycroft felt an almost forgotten sense of peace and relaxed a bit.

No matter how bad it was in his worst days, pain was not able to constantly maintain a high level of suffering.

Gradually a man gets used to everything.

Noticing a motion at the entrance to the room, Mycroft was distracted from his piece of cake on a plate and coughed, nearly choking on his tea. A tall handsome man in a perfect tuxedo and dazzling white shirt followed the administrator between the tables. The Active named Max. Sleek but, alas, the much older woman was stalking along next to her programmed man, tightly clutching his elbow.

 _Damn! Why has she dragged the doll out in a public place?_ Mycroft threw down the spoon on to the plate, hardly suppressing his anger.

 _You didn't hide Lestrade either._ His cheeky inner voice chuckled. _Let me remind you, at first you let him uncontrollably wander around Scotland Yard, and then dragged him into Thames House. You've even had dinner at the restaurant once. You aren't any better than she is._

The Active admiringly looked at his companion, Lady Swanson. She tidied her hair and proudly lifted up her chin, which was too smooth, beyond her years, the recipient of a good work of Plastic Surgeons.

“While Lord Swanson treats his gout on the coast of Italy, his wife has found a new passion,” Frazier chuckled, thoughtfully staring at Max. “I think I’ve met this gentleman before. Do you know him?”

Mycroft ignored the question.

He was waiting with a strange excitement when the Active came near their table, hoping for... What for?

A welcome nod? A sudden spark of recognition? A secret gesture?

Anyway, his hopes were dashed.

Rejecting the past, the doll enthusiastically played its new role.

“Sorry, I'll leave you for a moment.” Mycroft put his napkin on the table, quickly crossed the hall and turned into a corridor leading to the restroom.

Mycroft came into the echoing kingdom of white tiles and ceramics, turned on the tap and splashed in his face a handful of cold water. His cheeks glowered, as if in a fever. He clutched his fingers into the edge of the sink and locked eyes with his own reflection. _Pull yourself together! You are behaving like a hysterical young girl._

He stood there a few minutes, clearing his mind from dark thoughts and memories, listening to feelings.

His cheeks ached from the strain. Mycroft relaxed jaws and moved the lower from side to side.

_There's nothing to be upset about. It was a completely different man, someone, who looks very similar to one Detective Inspector Lestrade. He is just a look alike, that's all._

Icy indifference formed inside his throat.

It lazily squeezed along his esophagus, rolled over in the solar plexus, nesting on a new place for long. Pain and disappointment reluctantly retreated into the background.

_It's time to go back to the dining room._

The front door opened quietly, and on the threshold appeared Max's Handler.

Concentrated. Resolute. Dangerous.

A disturbing chill slid along Mycroft's back.

Mycroft turned sidewise to the Handler. He wanted to slide his hand into his jacket pocket and send an alarm signal from his mobile, but did not. Echoes of quick steps flew between the walls and then a gun shot broke through a suppressor. Thousands of nerves began to howl in Mycroft's right shoulder.

He barely managed to stay on his feet.

“Don't try any tricks, Mr. Holmes,” Carl warned. “I have a message for you.”

 _So, Miller broke down. Foolishly and utterly unsophisticated,_ Mycroft thought, trying to blink away the dark spots that blurred his vision. Warm trickles of blood run down along his back and chest. _I should not care about the secrecy and haven't appeared in public without bodyguards._

Without letting his enemy move out of sight, Carl checked the empty cabins and stopped about fifteen feet from Mycroft.

“The message is 'Your arrogance and inability to choose the enemies have destroyed you'. End quote.” He raised his gun, aiming at Mycroft's head.

“What's going on here?” Slamming the door, Max indignantly looked first at one man, then at the second.

 _Superhero hurries up to help defenseless inhabitants of the UK._ If only for the nasty cough didn't scratch his throat, Mycroft would certainly have laughed with all suitable sarcasm. _It seems that Dani completely removed self-preservation from this imprint._

“Fuck!” Karl hissed irritably. He put the gun down and shook his head then stepped toward Max. “I came for you,” he said softly, locked eyes with his ward and put his hand on Max's shoulder.

“Now everything is all right,” Max said without thinking.

As if by magic thirst for justice and righteous anger began to vanish from doll's face, leaving behind only submissive indifference.

Mycroft decided to take a moment to reach into his pocket with his left hand, but he knew that if he quit holding onto the sink, he'll certainly collapse on the floor and draw the attention of the Handler.

It's difficult to compete in speed with bullet fired from an automatic gun.

He gritted his teeth and, without taking the phone out of his pocket, pressed the right buttons with numb fingers of his right hand.

He even tried to calculate the possibility of a favorable outcome in the event that he typed a correct code. But he not been able to concentrate on the problem statement.

“I'll help you get out,” Carl patiently continued their code phrase.

“I’m safe with you,” Max agreed and slowly unclenched his fists.

“See to the door. Let no one in,” Karl ordered with his usual sharp voice and turned away, leaving the Active behind, out of sight, without any misgivings. “Will you say anything?” he asked, pointing to himself that Holmes is about to flake out.

Mycroft should think of something to distract the Handler and stall for a little more time, but fragments of thoughts swarmed in his brain like a tangle of angry bees, refusing to be combined into full sentences.

His fingers slid helplessly on smooth enamel surface, roar of the surf surged in his ears, exhausting pain flexed his body in half.

What an absurd death.

Mycroft raised his head stubbornly.

His eyes burned through the Handler, moved to the right and found brown eyes, hazy and feverish. _Goodbye._

“You will be found,” promised Mycroft.

“Miller found me a new place in the branch on the continent. And you and your post are so small that no one would begin an international scandal because of such a trifle.” Carl shrugged with feigned indifference. “I bet nobody will even mourn for your death.”

“You're wrong. I will,” Max said in a serious voice and with a swoop hit the Handler's head to the nearest sink.

The throat and the lower edge of the jaw took the bulk of the blow.

Dropping the gun, Carl limply slid to the Active's feet like a rag doll, and Mycroft understanding he began to fall down also.

Max jumped over the limp Handler and rushed to Mycroft. Strong arms wrapped themselves around across his body and gently laid him down on the hard floor, but Mycroft didn't feel it. He continued to look at the familiar features of the face, trying to find out something very important in frowned brows, shiny from despair eyes and silent moving lips, repeating the same word.

Almost falling into blissful oblivion, Mycroft finally decrypted the strange movement of the lips and was very surprised.

“Stay,” whispered the man bent over him, soiling the sleeves of his shirt with dark red blood in a vain attempt to press the wound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7\. Permanent Under-Secretary in the British Foreign and Commonwealth Office.


	9. Chapter 9

“I know everything,” said Sherlock, without warning bursting into Mycroft's ward.

“Really?” Closing the laptop, Mycroft awkwardly moved it with his healthy left hand from his lap to the bedside table with a look of keen interest on his face. “The second largest planet in the solar system?”

“Don't clown around, how our Mom doesn't tire of repeating,” Sherlock snapped, stopping by the window he half-turned to his brother. “I know the truth about Dollhouse. I know that you've been taking me for an idiot. I know that Lestrade has been a doll.” He looked at Mycroft, expecting comments, but Mycroft kept silent. “Damned manipulator, I hate you!”

The last phrase was said too melodramatically and Mycroft sighed with relief. Sherlock isn't as angry as he wants to show.

Seven points on a ten Holmes scale.

Leaning back on a pillow, Mycroft began methodically stroking a light green blanket, waiting for when Sherlock finally go to the theme for which he wasn’t too lazy to come to the hospital.

Two weeks had passed since Mycroft's hospitalization. It was the first visit of one of his relatives.

The Crown could not ignore the attempt on the life of one of their main shadow consultants, so a half an hour after the incident with Miller the chief of the security department of Dollhouse was arrested and Carl was placed in a guarded hospital.

Although Mycroft would be happy to personally plan the capture of these scoundrels and have it go without any gunshot wounds... such a scenario also had the right to exist, especially when you take into account the speed and ease of execution.

“Today, _he_ is going back to his hometown,” without any connection to their previous conversation, started Sherlock, watching for the reaction of his brother using the corner of his eye. “The train departs from the station…”

“Not interested.” Mycroft raised his hand in a warning gesture, forcing Sherlock into silence. “But you, without a doubt, are very upset by his departure.”

“As always you are exaggerating.” Sherlock snorted with feigned independence and shrugged. “It's just all the other detectives working in the department of especially grave crimes are conservative idiots, while Lestrade has a very flexible mind. He’s open-minded, but at the same time true to himself.”

'True', this word should be put on the family coat of arms, if it were the Middle Ages, and Lestrade had noble origins.

“But you are very upset,” said Sherlock without a shadow of ridicule, examining Mycroft from under half-closed eyelids. “Don't even try to deny it.”

Upset? Too much of an understatement. The right would be 'melancholy' and 'depressed'. Tormented by moral questions that have no clear answer, and broken to pieces with sharp bouts of self-torture.

“I'm fine,” Mycroft lied, trying to revive at least a little of his colorless voice.

Judging by the frustration flashed on Sherlock's face, his performance wasn't perfect.

Within seven days the whole staff of Dollhouse was thoroughly questioned and then dismissed, after they each signed a nondisclosure agreement.

Danny returned their original identities to the dolls, erased memories specified in the contract and completely removed the base structure of an Active from the brain.

Accounts of the branch were seized. They paid financial compensation to every doll, and transferred balances to the state treasury.

Two government agents supervised the process of recovering identities so Dani didn't try to engage in amateurs. Sherlock found out a cheeky way to break into the company. He used the borrowed access card from Mycroft and useful contacts with some officers of MI5.

Because of the obvious problems with his health Mycroft learned about the act too late; when giving the lecture about secrecy made no sense.

Dani took a job at a research lab of the Secret Service. The library of imprints were destroyed, all equipment was mothballed.

The English branch of Dollhouse had stopped existing.

“What were you thinking, when you allowed such a dangerous technology to come to the shores of the United Kingdom?” Sherlock pursed his lips.

Mycroft tried to disguise his surprise with a pained grimace.

It was strange to hear such comments from his younger brother. He prefers a microcosm of particulars, now thoughts about something more global.

“My warnings were not taken with due care.” Mycroft shrugged. “In their understanding Dollhouse looked like an innocuous attraction, entertainment for adults similar to Disneyland. Delight of new features eclipsed the arguments of reason.”

“And haven't you thought that about half of the senior officials of the United Kingdom probably have long been puppets of Dollhouse?”

“No way.” Mycroft shook his head. “In central government institutions were pre-installed sensors that detect the presence base structure of an Active. Reports about all actions are automatically sent to three departments all at once. I receive a copy.”

In the light of the events of recent days similar sensors hastily installed at all points of access to the country; in the air and sea ports; in railway stations, where trains arrive from the Eurotunnel under the English Channel; at borders and points of customs control.

Even in some large public buildings.

“I didn't know that such sensors already exist.” Sherlock perked up noticeably. “I thought that Dani is currently working on its creation.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Mycroft snorted derisively, in mock sympathy throwing up his hands.

“Sometimes I think that you live only for that,” Sherlock said. “If you dare again, even once, to try and fool me with a 'bought' friend...”

This time, the anger in Sherlock's voice was at all ten points, and Mycroft wearily closed his eyes. Apparently, he and Sherolock would have to, until the end of their lives, be content with the fact that they would never be closer to anyone other than each other.

Too unlike others. Too exacting inner circle. Too different.

The faceless Puppeteer gently pulled the golden thread, suggesting the man to see the future in the long term, because he didn't approve of pessimistic thoughts. And he initially planned for these special puppets a complicated but ultimately happy play.

***

Gregory Lestrade looked around his modest hotel room, slung a bag with clothes on his shoulder and went out. Returning to his hometown almost a month ago, he never quite felt at home. Everything seemed unfamiliar and irritating. In addition, some irresistible force drew him back to London.

Former friends and acquaintances joyfully greeted him at their meeting, asked about his life in the capital, shared personal news. Lestrade evasively answered their questions and had to come up with a plausible lie, because unlike everyone else, for him the past four years seemed as though it had flown by in a flash.

Habitual streets subtly changed, and the city itself somehow shrank, became very mundane and boring. Things that had seemed cozy now pressed him with their tightness, and Lestrade with great difficulty could barely imagine how he lived here almost all his life.

He was pursued with an obsessive feeling of anxiety, as if he had forgotten his wallet at home, lost important documents ... left his cell phone somewhere. Lestrade constantly double-checked his pockets, looked back at the table, when leaving a cafe, went back to the room from half way to the lift to make sure that he'd turned off the lights and locked the door, but his worry didn't disappear. This is the way, he eventually he decided his psychological stress was affected from working at Dollhouse. He couldn't lose anything (anyone?) over the years, and certainly couldn't remember even if something really had happened. _Gradually, the brain will adapt and go into normal mode_ , Lestrade reassured himself.

Today, just before awakening he dreamed a strange dream, of an unsteady and ephemeral image of a tall man in the blinding rays of the incipient day.

Surrounded by the golden glow the stranger walked steadily toward dawn, and Lestrade was unable to move. He silently screamed from the great pain that filled every part of his body. An insistent ringing penetrated his ears. Thin with copper sheen string stretched from Lestrade to the stranger and violently vibrated with each new step, threatening to burst at any moment.

Then suddenly everything disappeared; the sounds, feelings, bright light. The stranger seemed to dissolve in the swaying haze, and Lestrade woke up, feeling an echoing emptiness at the point where just moment ago nested unbearable pain.

In parting, the Dollhouse programmer grimly warned him that Detective Inspector Lestrade moved to London, and now he is officially on leave for family reasons. Although monetary compensation, which Lestrade got under the contract, with a reasonable approach would be enough not to work until the end of his life. He decided to return to service.

It's hard to change established habits in an instant. Lestrade didn't want to suffer from idleness. From childhood his dream was always to become a detective at Scotland Yard.

Despite the cloudy winter weather he felt lightness and excitement.

Squinting, Lestrade took one last look at the frozen pier and headed towards the train station, quietly whistling a cheerful tune.

***

In the first days after the return from his 'holiday' nervous and mental tensions threatened to drive him crazy.

Despite the fact that according to official figures, he had worked at Scotland Yard a little less than three weeks, but according to unconfirmed rumors he was assigned to some higher authority last week, and doesn't appear in the office. There he met too many unknown ‘mates’.

If only Lestrade had thought about this a little earlier, he could've come up with some kind of a simple story about a blow to his head and a slight case of amnesia. Now he had to make things up, and it was much more difficult than with former friends in his hometown... his colleagues' impressions were too fresh.

They greeted him in the smoking room and near the coffee machine, intercepted him in the hallway and he was stopped on the stairs,

_“Where have you been? Is everything all right?”_

_“Let's have a pint in the evening?”_

_“Friday is Grace's birthday. We are going to Harrats. Are you with us?”_

_“You are gloomy today. Something happened?”_

How did this happen? During the investigation of one case, even with the serial killer as a murderer, he not only caught the eye of, but got acquainted and perhaps even got close to so many people?

The next working morning Lestrade infamously broke and yelled at a young detective named Dimmock, in response to 'Today you seem unusually sad. Have family problems?'.

Lestrade still remembered that day with shame.

Well at least there were only three witnesses of his hysterics.

But after all, do they work in the Police Department or in a traveling circus? When Lestrade last checked his job duties there was no mention of 'clown', but the inexperienced Dimmock had obviously confused this position with 'Detective Inspector'.

Gradually, things became relatively normal.

However, yesterday near Thames House Lestrade was stopped by an unknown man with a military bearing who asked about the health and life in general, and asked to convey greetings to some Mycroft.

If only Lestrade could know what affairs 'the other' Lestrade could have with MI5 and mysterious Mycroft. He had no doubt it would be a great surprise for him someday.

Lestrade got used to controlling his words and emotions, trying not to show that he didn't know something, or didn't remember someone.

Hearing the sharp voice of Sherlock, who usually snapped out with experts and constables at every opportunity, Lestrade hastily rounded the mobile crime lab van, hurrying to extinguish the conflict at the beginning, and suddenly almost fell on a flat surface.

There is nothing unusual in the appearance of Sherlock's companion.

Just a man. Tall, pale, with perfect posture and haughty expression on his face, which, however, immediately changed to a painful confusion at the moment when the man noticed Lestrade.

They froze three feet apart.

Lestrade gently stroked his stretched thigh muscle, not daring to speak first, fearing to be trapped. The man just stared. He almost palpably examined the DI with his gaze, pursing his thin white lips. Sherlock curiously looked from one man to the other.

A minute later the stranger almost imperceptibly winced and went out of his stupor.

“Mycroft Holmes.” He held out his hand to Lestrade.

“Gregory Lestrade. Nice to meet you.”

His first thought was, _thank God! At least I was not familiar with him._ But then Lestrade remembered under what circumstances he recently heard that name. _I wonder how many men named Mycroft can reside within London and at the same time have relevance to MI5 and a humble DI from Scotland Yard?_

Well, he certainly couldn't ask Holmes.

“Inspector, we're done.” A dark haired expert looked out from behind the van. “Do you need anything else? If not, we are going to pack and leave.”

“Wait for five minutes, please, if you aren't in a hurry,” Lestrade said, made eye contact with Mycroft, almost forgetting the presence of Sherlock. “I would like to talk to you.”

 _Talk about what, idiot?_ He used the first excuse that came to his mind, simply because he could not immediately reject this intriguing first impression. _Now think, invent a suitable topic so you don't look like a country cousin._

Lestrade retreated rapidly.

“Don't you know?” Sherlock suspiciously looked at his brother. “Danny used 86 percent of Lestrade's original identity to create the doll. I dare say that to get the identity of an experienced DI isn't so simple. I bet, Dani like a girl squealed with joy when Miller signed a contract with Lestrade.”

Fourteen percent is that a lot or a little? Mycroft couldn't say with certainty. What exactly is included in these miserable fourteen percent? It's impossible to make accurate conclusions based on three minutes of observation, but one Mycroft knew for certain: infinite patience and resoluteness remain in Lestrade's personality in full.

“I haven't had time to satisfy my curiosity,” Mycroft said coldly, trying not to show his brother that this information and the encounter threw him off his stride.

In fact, these days Mycroft strenuously avoided any mention of Lestrade.

In a couple of hours he could get a detailed file about Lestrade, files about those people whose identities were used in the doll's imprint, and a file about the person-owner of the selected body. For some reason Mycroft was sure that the physical shell and mind of the doll belonged to different people. He could examine the exact percentage of external skills and memories, the results of corrective manipulations, full psychological portrait of the original person.

He could find out Lestrade's past; a list of his sexual preferences and another one with names of his partners; his hobbies, favorite foods and drinks. Sitting in a quiet private office Mycroft could learn almost everything about Lestrade, but he wouldn't get a clear answer to the only question that was really important.

So Mycroft did nothing.

Maybe he just wasn't brave enough.

Maybe he tired of swimming against the tide.

 _You'll be the last idiot if you lose him again,_ heard Mycroft. He hadn't understood who said the phrase: his brother, who moved away a few seconds prior, or his inner voice.

When half an hour later Lestrade returned, not hoping to catch his new interest in the same place, he didn't have to choose right words.

“Dinner?” asked Mycroft with a weary curiosity and awkwardly waved with a clutched umbrella in his left hand. “There is a good French restaurant on the next street.”

“With pleasure.” Lestrade nodded and broke into a broad smile.


	10. Chapter 10

Unlike Sherlock, communicating with Mycroft was on the order of a magnitude easier.

They talked about all sorts of trifles, like old friends.

Lestrade told stories about the everyday life of the police department and Mycroft told, about little Sherlock during his first trip to France getting acquainted with the national cuisine.

How he spat out snails, wondering why people pay money to eat this slimy muck. How using cutlery he tried to dissect frogs' legs on a napkin, pronouncing on perfect Latin name of muscle groups and each muscle individually, and rushed to the chef to demand remainder of the carcass for research. How he ate a dozen giant éclairs on a bet with a neighbor boy and couldn't look for dessert until the end of the trip. How he studied over two hundred kinds of local cheese and made a show, with his eyes closed as he faultlessly determined to the taste and the name of each kind.

Lestrade even thought that he hadn't had such a wonderful evening in years and then he noticed the calendar next to the reception area and immediately darkened.

“Is it really the twenty-first today?” he asked absently, staring into his cup of tea.

“Really.” Mycroft crumpled a napkin in his hands. “What's the matter?”

“My son would turn ten years old today,” said Lestrade with a cracked voice, mentally cursing himself for forgetfulness.

He was run off his feet, moving, adjusting to a new job and trying to avoid awkward situations because of gaps in memory and didn't notice that the old feelings faded and receded into the background.

Although currently Lestrade was glad he remembered it now, and not later, being alone in his rented flat.

Mycroft said nothing.

He didn’t rush to empathize or apologize. He was silent, but without that discomfort and instinctive estrangement with which people tend to isolate themselves from other people's problems.

He didn't ask him and didn't look away, didn't try to cheer him or change the subject.

He kept silent but so warm and familiar, that Lestrade didn't notice as he began to speak. At first slowly, carefully choosing his words, and then faster and faster, and in the end very quickly, swallowing the end of sentences, as if trying to scoop up his soul to the bottom, to get rid of the accumulated toxic residue.

Lestrade told what a smart and quick-witted boy his Brian was. With a smile, he recalled how his son drove everybody mental with inexhaustible questions and puzzled by sudden logical calculations. How he poked his curious nose into every hole and constantly was in the way.

Mycroft said nothing.

Lost in memories, Lestrade told him in a hollow voice that his wife Kate and son Brian were hit by a car with a drugged-out son of the head of the local administration at the wheel.

They died on the spot.

How he returned home in the evening, still not believing what happened. He tripped over a toy railroad that was spread out on the living room floor and then for a long time was putting together tracks and the station house. Small parts strove to slip out of his trembling naughty fingers, but Lestrade continued to restore everything as it was. Inside his head was only one thought: _Brian will be upset if he sees his favorite toy in such a state._

How in the next morning half asleep he stepped on a plastic robot in the corridor and wanted to scold his son, but after a moment he remembered that he had nobody to scold anymore. How for many weeks he couldn't bring himself to clean up their things scattered around the house as if they went out for five minutes. How he helplessly cried, curling up on the floor in the corner of the bathroom, pressing his face into Kate's bathrobe.

Fortunately Lestrade didn't remember the details of the accident now. There were only cold lines of the police report in his brain.

Returning to his hometown, he couldn't even find a place where the tragedy occurred, although it happened in front of him.

Here he is sitting in a parked car across the street and watched as his wife and son leisurely walk along the sidewalk. Brian frowns, trying to fit in his left palm an ice cream and a ribbon of the toy balloon together.

“You must walk across the street holding your mother's hand.” Kate cheerfully laughs, tying loop at the tip of the ribbon so it can be put on a finger.

And in the next moment, a bulky Land Rover knocked the fence and pressed down under its wheels defenseless human bodies.

Lestrade forgot that every night he watched the death of his loved ones again.

As soon as he closed his eyes, he again found himself on the same street just a few seconds before the accident. He got stuck in the swamp of time, choked with cry, tried to change the situation, but lost them again and again anyway. Lestrade dreamed of revenge, only there was no one to take revenge upon.

Thirty feet after leaving the road the car went off the cliff behind. The drug addict, the driver died on the way to the hospital without regaining consciousness.

Lestrade felt as though he was slowly going mad. He couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, but he continued to go to work.

One evening near the supermarket he noticed a cheeky guy who was going to drive in a state of extreme intoxication. Lestrade dragged him out of the car and beaten him to a pulp.

It was the last straw.

Chief Detective Inspector Raymond sent Lestrade on indefinite leave, although dealing with the beating nevertheless was managed in a hush up.

Then Lestrade began drinking.

He lied on the couch in the living room for days on end, taking to the bottle with cheap whiskey and mindlessly staring at the ceiling.

He wanted to forget.

Forget the sunlit street, the fucked car and his helplessness. Forget closed coffins entering into the dark mouth of the crematorium and endless sympathetic looks. But he wanted to remember Kate's laughter and indomitable cheerfulness of their son.

Lestrade thought that Miller looked like a cunning and powerful wizard.

He looked quite ridiculous. A polished metropolitan dandy in the middle of a dirty dark room, but there was nothing to laugh about. Miller made him an offer that Lestrade couldn't refuse. Turning all his property over to Kate's mother, he agreed to become a doll.

“I’m sorry”. Emerging from memories, Lestrade glanced at Mycroft and stood up from the table. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Feeling a slight spasm in his throat, he thought it would be better to escape into the fresh air and settle his mind. Even with his friends and not very distant relatives Lestrade had never discussed this tragedy, but today he suddenly opened up. Why? He had drunk only half a glass of dry wine, it was too little for intoxication. Mycroft was surprisingly good listener. Maybe that's the thing?

Pulling from his pocket a crumpled pack, Lestrade lit a cigarette.

The door tinkled softly behind and Mycroft stepped out and stopped on the right hand next to him like a mirror image, clutching a lit cigarette in his fingers.

“Once again I am sorry.” Lestrade screwed up his face. “I usually don't throw out my problems on new friends on the first night ... and on the next either.”

“Never mind.” Microsoft elegantly dragged on a cigarette and released a plume of smoke into the darkening sky. “This phenomenon is called, ‘The effect of an accidental fellow traveler’."

“I would never put the word 'accidental' near you.” Lestrade grinned, marveling at his own boldness. _Is it a flirt? Am I trying to flirt with a man?!_ Today he and his tongue lived separate lives, clearly intending to put its owner either to the blush or to the problem. “It's not suitable to you.”

“And what is suitable?” Mycroft turned with interest.

“Predicted,” without hesitation said Lestrade and stumbled. “I mean... Forget it... I didn’t mean it...”

“It does not matter,” Mycroft stopped him. “Come, I'll take you home.”

“What about the bill?”

“I've already paid.”

“Tell me how much, I owe you half.” Lestrade reached into his pocket for his wallet.

“You'll pay the next time.” Mycroft squinted slyly. “Or maybe you are going to avoid my company?”

“Of course, not!”

Lestrade thought that even if Mycroft didn’t say this, he would still find the opportunity to meet with this extraordinary man again. Going down from the porch, he glanced at the brightly lit windows of the restaurant and unknowingly sighed.

“The shadow will let you go as soon as you let her go,” the smooth voice said in his ear.

Lestrade winced, wondering how Mycroft could catch his gloomy thoughts so precisely.

He replayed today's events in his head, but didn't remember one of them that touched on a similar theme.

They got into the car, and Lestrade called out his address to the driver.

The road passed in silence, each of the men caught within his own thoughts.

When the car stopped in front of a gray three-storey building, Lestrade turned to Mycroft, realizing that the time had come to say goodbye.

“Thank you for accompanying me.” He smiled and held out his hand to Mycroft.

“Don’t mention it. I enjoyed,” Mycroft said stiffly. “Besides, no one should be alone on such a night.” He cocked his head and looked behind Lestrade. “Do you rent a flat in this house?”

“Yes.” Lestrade opened the car door, still not understanding what got Holmes' attention.

“Are there always a lot of lights left on? Mycroft frowned.

All the windows of the house, including the flat rented by Lestrade, shone with the warm glow of electric light.

Lestrade shook his head and walked to the front door. He heard Mycroft exit the car and came out on the sidewalk too.

“I'll take a walk with you,” said Holmes with a tone that brooked no objection and buttoned his coat. “I don't like this sort of oddness.”

Lestrade shrug with feigned insouciance and thought that there was a real chaos in his flat. Most people would be ashamed to invite even their best friend insidee, much less than perfect Mycroft Holmes.

His companion was deliberately detached and dispassionate, but Lestrade felt that the last night in fact was not just a 'dinner', but a 'date'.

This thought made him strangely happy and scared at the same time.

At the entrance the air smelled of hot metal and wet plaster.

When Lestrade stepped up along to the middle of the stairs, he heard that somebody’s voice carry downstairs.

“Mr. Lestrade, I'm glad to see you.” The roguish landlord leaned over the railing. “We have an accident. One of the water pipes in the attic burst. All floors, up to the basement, were flooded.”

Lestrade chose this flat for two reasons: the proximity to the Yard and reasonable price. He wasn't going to attract too much attention to his money, renting some expensive flat in a prestigious area, and didn't see much sense to pay lots of money for a flat where he planned to come only for sleep and tidy his appearance.

But he absolutely didn't count on that!

Lestrade got to the door, turned the key in the lock and went inside.

“Who else came in Mr. Lestrade's flat in his absence?” The powerful Holmes' voice sounded behind him.

Only now Lestrade realized that the friendly and open Mycroft, with whom he had spent the evening, was the exception rather than the rule in everyday life.

The roguish landlord immediately felt threatened by an unknown representative gentleman and hurried to report with all possible respect. “I've come in. It was necessary to estimate the damage and give access it for repairs. I didn't allow anybody else to enter.”

“I hope so,” said Mycroft tightly, offering the landlord to think through the consequences that awaited him in the event of fraud.

Lestrade felt upset. He clicked his tongue, looking at wet walls, the plaster that fell on the floor and the completely soaked bed. Cold winter air broke in the window but it hadn't been able to rapidly reduce the humidity of the room.

Lestrade didn't intend to sleep in such circumstances.

He was an unpretentious man in life but everything had its limits. Throwing open the closet door, which fortunately was away from the main stream of water, he hastily stuffed some dry clothes into a sports bag and went to the front door. Mycroft stood near it, not daring to cross the threshold.

“Call me when you fix it,” Lestrade said to the landlord, squeezing past him in a narrow corridor, and headed down the stairs.

“Where are you now?” Mycroft asked, as soon as they were on the street.

“In some cheap hotel, I suppose.” Lestrade shrugged.

Mycroft looked at him. “May I offer you my hospitality? No worries. I have a large house and several guest bedrooms,” he added hastily, after seeing Lestrade hesitated.

“As long as my presence doesn’t cause you any serious inconvenience.”

“Good, that's settled, then.” Mycroft smiled. “Home,” he said to the driver who opened the rear door of the car for him.

***

Waking up long before the alarm clock, Lestrade took a shower and now was meticulously examining his reflection in the large mirror.

He was still not accustomed to the changes that had taken place with his body during the contract with the Dollhouse.

His hair became grayer, but the new short hairstyle looked more stylish than the previous one, which he hadn't changed over the years.

His face had brightened. The dark circles around his eyes vanished as well as the hopeless despair, which had settled in the depths of his eyes after the tragedy. New radiant wrinkles appeared in the corners of his eyes, but they added a certain charm, not spoiling the overall impression.

His body became trimmer and ripped, although certain signs of aging hadn't gone away. Previously, Lestrade hadn't enough time for focused exercises, and even now it won't appear for sure, but what he saw in the mirror today, encouraged him to make every effort to maintain his existing physical form.

At least for the next couple of years.

Because he began to notice some interested gazes, addressed at him, again.

Women had never avoided Lestrade, but in recent years he had Kate and he considered flirting as an unworthy act for any married man. In addition, it's not possible to conceal a betrayal in a small provincial town if Lestrade actually decided to do it.

Lestrade fairly chuckled and began to dress.

Whatever his behavior when he was a doll in Dollhouse, 'that' Lestrade was able to win over most of the familiar female population of Scotland Yard and related services. And since the ladies didn't stop making eyes at him, it was possible to assert with confidence that the current version of Lestrade was not so very different from the previous one.

At least on an impartial sight from the side.

Lestrade stepped into the hall, intending to go downstairs to the kitchen, but stopped twenty feet from the stairs in front of the wide open door of Mycroft's bedroom. He was suddenly lost in admiration, looking at how Mycroft was tying his tie with elegant small movements of his fingers. Lestrade didn't realize that his presence was immediately noticed.

“Good morning, Gregory.” Pulling forward one of the inner cabinet drawers, Mycroft paused for a few seconds, and then pulled out a silver tie clip. “Unfortunately, I have a car waiting, but you do not need to leave the house so early. As far as I know, Scotland Yard detectives begin to work at eight.”

“What time does your working day begin then?” Lestrade asked with surprise, leaving the question of the position of his new friend for the future.

“Differently.” Mycroft took his jacket off the hanger. “But do not be afraid, workaholism is not contagious.” He playfully winked to Lestrade's reflection in the mirror on a cabinet door.

“I'm afraid, in terms of my profession I can infect you with something worse than banal workaholism.” Lestrade snorted. “Be careful!”

“Your short rest worked in your favor.” Mycroft nodded approvingly. “You've begun joking again.”

“At Scotland Yard they think that I'm some sort of a walking chest full of jokes and fun,” said Lestrade, forgetting about caution. “You'd think, before I was more...”

“Pushy.” Mycroft prompted, and immediately grimaced in annoyance, realizing that he showed his awareness.

“So you knew me... when I was a doll?” Lestrade swallowed nervously and pulled the collar of his shirt that suddenly became too tight.

“Gregory, I really need to go,” Mycroft tried to duck the question and buy himself time to think about the situation. “We can discuss all the questions you are interested in when I get back in the evening.”

“'Yes' or 'no',” Lestrade demanded with unexpected stubbornness and stood in the way of Mycroft’s leaving. “The answer won't take long.”

Mycroft straightened his jacket and irritably snapped the lid of his gilded Breguet.

In the end, sooner or later, this information would necessarily emerge. In addition, he didn't want to leave such a beautiful subject for blackmail to Sherlock.

It is better to have the show down right here and now.

Mycroft chose the only right option and emphatically looked at Lestrade.

“Yes,” he said curtly. “Yes, I knew you when you were a doll. Yes, I ordered this doll. And no, I didn't ordered it for myself,” he added cautiously, noticing something very similar to panic in the face of the DI.

“For Sherlock?” Lestrade muttered quietly. “I beg you, tell me what I didn't shag Sherlock.” He grabbed Mycroft's arm just above the elbow.

“I don't know exactly.” Mycroft frowned in confusion. “Does it matter? I only saw you…”

“What?”

“Sherlock had a slight concussion, and you were left to look after him while he slept. I noticed you…” Mycroft paused, choosing the right word. “You touched his hair.”

“I was stroking him on his head while he was asleep?” Lestrade brightened. “And that's all?”

“I know nothing more.” Mycroft shrugged. “You'd better ask Sherlock.”

“Now it’s clear.” Lestrade chuckled sadly. “I hadn't understood it before.”

“Do you like Sherlock's hair?” Mycroft skeptically looked to the mirror at his own thin hair, which, in his opinion, didn’t compare in any competition with the dark thick hair of his brother.

“In a way, yes,” Lestrade said and Mycroft tried to hide his sudden disappointment. “You are fool,” Lestrade added, noticing his reaction.

While Mycroft was thinking about if he should take offense at such rudeness or not, Lestrade studied the echo of surprisingly familiar glow around golden top of Holmes' head with interest. “Brian had the same unruly curls, just like Sherlock,” he said as he took pity finally.

A sincere relief flashed in Mycroft's face for an instant and Lestrade couldn't help laughing out loudly, but almost immediately he became serious, feeling like the air in his lungs was heated white hot.

Not allowing himself to come to his senses, he grasped Mycroft’s tie and kissed the man. He almost lost his balance in the literal and figurative sense, being stunned by his response.

Mycroft was kissing passionately, demandingly, unconditionally submitted to the desire.

His mouth was hard and hot, and didn't feel like a woman's mouth at all, but this understanding didn't distract Lestrade, but only added a more twisted and tight spiral of enjoyment in his chest. Mycroft's breath smelled of coffee and almonds. And in the moment when his insistent tongue slipped between Lestrade's parted lips, a warm wave of joy covered his heart, a dull groan sounded in his throat, making his blood boil like mercury.

 _Harder_ _._ _Closer._ _Hotter_ _._

There was an inappropriate amount of clothes on Mycroft, and Lestrade's hands too slow and clumsy, which were unable to embrace this man all at once.

_He's so tall. It’s unusual._

It's unusual to reach up to his face, slightly moving his head back, unusual to caress his strong broad shoulders, unusual to smell the delicate fragrance of aftershave, the freshness of the sea breeze mixed with subtle citrus bitterness. Unusual to let his lips study the delicate dimple of skin on his clean-shaven chin.

Suddenly Lestrade realized that the clear evidence of Mycroft's arousal rested against his thigh, but this knowledge didn't bring him down to earth, on the contrary, it strangely gave wings to his boiling like in a fevered mind.

Don't respond to the annoying phone call, even if caller burst with impatience, Lestrade thought, because he wasn't able to speak. Wasn't able to think, and actually, he wasn’t able to breathe without great difficulty.

A drumbeat was growing in his ears, and fog filled his head from lack of oxygen. But maybe everything is unreal? Maybe he is sleeping, and in a moment will cry out in pain again, looking after the departing tall man ... after Mycroft?

“I have to go. Really,” Mycroft whispered hoarsely, putting light kisses on Lestrade's cheekbones and forehead. “I'll see you tonight, won't I?” he breathed somewhere in the area of Lestrade's temple with a strange anxiety.

“Of course.” Lestrade reluctantly lowered his trembling hands.

“See you in the evening, then.” A kiss firmly pressed to his lips for the last time, Mycroft grabbed his bursting mobile from the bedside table and stepped to the door. “Keys are on a table in the hallway. Be sure to go down to the kitchen and have breakfast. Make yourself at home.”

Not having time to come to his senses, Lestrade was left all alone in the silence of Mycroft's bedroom.


	11. Chapter 11

During the day Lestrade could not concentrate at work.

Immersed in thought, he missed a question from the Superintendent at the morning meeting and earned a disapproving look from the CDI. He was distracted and inattentive, constantly losing the thread of conversation and falling silent mid-sentence.

Fortunately no new crimes within the jurisdiction of his department happened on this day. So Lestrade pretended to be working on unsolved cases, but in fact he was mindlessly leafing through expert files, shifting them from the box to the table and back.

From time to time he began to scold 'this bloody Dollhouse', where they finally broke his brain. Lestrade absolutely hadn't been interested in men before. Then he remembered Mycroft's kisses, at the mere thought of them made his cheeks begin to glow with fire, and he agreed with his inner voice, that he just hadn't met such man before.

He tried to imagine what it would be look like, the relationship with Holmes and a possible life together, but his mind was stuck because of lack of information.

Lestrade loved and knew how to court the ladies. Considering the process of conquest and acquaintance with the peculiarities of each other was no less interesting than all that follow after it.

And here his imagination got stuck again.

Should he start to court Mycroft? How can you court this, no doubt, influential and powerful man? The idea that Mycroft in turn may himself begin the process of courtship, frightened Lestrade and caused a tremble at his knees. He immediately imagined devoid of any manhood copy of himself, for some reason necessarily in a long cotton dress, under a spreading oak tree, giggling shyly with a bunch of flowers in his hands. He drove this wild imaginated vision away with irritation.

Periodically Lestrade was inclined to the agree that it was a bad idea to obey the emotions. It was too early for a new relationship. But then he remembered that by the usual social standards he was nearly five years as a widower, and came to the conclusion that in his desire to move on was nothing to be ashamed of.

You can't constantly look back.

Time is a great healer.

Lestrade could confirm this statement by oath.

Though he couldn't remember his feelings and pain and didn't know how he lived the last four years, his body coped with the consequences of the tragedy.

The pain was gone, and a bright sadness appeared instead of it.

Those confused thoughts were cycling in his mind, and the closer evening came, the more uncomfortable he felt. He didn't know what to say to Mycroft at their meeting, didn't know how to behave. He worried that he might misinterpret Mycroft's words and reactions, but had no idea that it was possible to misinterpret that very clear situation.

After the end of his working day Lestrade went outside, walked a couple of blocks and entered the first cafe he noticed. Prices there were above average, but the coffee was good. Lestrade sat down at a table in the corner and clasped the paper cup in his chilly hands.

“Detective Inspector, what a pleasant surprise!” He immediately recognized this female voice.

Looking up, Lestrade nodded pleasantly to Julia Saunders, a pretty woman and medical examiner, which he had often encountered during his inspecting crime scenes.

“Good evening.” He smiled.

“You once said that I can get you a cup of coffee as chance offers.” Julia smiled him back. “Maybe now is just the right moment?”

“It's unlikely that I would put it that way.” Lestrade put his cup on a table and sat back, gladly looking at the slender Julia's figure, usually hidden under shapeless white overalls at work. “Most likely, I said something like: 'You can invite me for a cup of coffee'.”

“And what's the difference?” Julie furrowed her brow.

“The point is that I'll buy you a cup of coffee, not you.” Lestrade rose from the table and pointed to a nearby chair. “Please, have a seat. I'll be back in a minute. What do you prefer?”

“Black, no sugar.” Julie laughed. “I must admit, I am impressed by your old-fashioned gentlemanly behavior.”

Lestrade was waiting at the counter for his order and thinking that Julia was just his taste, and it seems that she was ready to have a small affair. He thought about how freely and confidently he feels next to her, and that perhaps some right settings got wrong in his brain, but if he spends a little time with a woman, it all will be back to normal.

His crazy desire to Holmes and delusional visions will disappear.

Lestrade returned to Julia. He barely had time to tell her a couple of jokes and in good humor complain about his awkward sergeant as Sherlock suddenly appeared beside their table.

He looked over Lestrade from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes and said approvingly 'Ohhh-oh', then he turned to Julia. The ‘reading' of her appearance took him much less time but it ended up with the same ‘Oo-oh!’, though Lestrade thought that the last sound was slightly reproachful.

“Stop pretending to be an imbecile,” Lestrade muttered angrily. “If you want to say something, use the English language.”

But when Sherlock opened his mouth, Lestrade raised his hand in a warning, making it clear that he had not finished yet.

“And let's go without that 'deductive' method of yours. Other people are absolutely not interested in the facts of what I've eaten for my breakfast and what time I've woken up.”

“With whom,” Sherlock corrected him pedantically. “As a rule, people are much more interested in the fact 'with whom' the man has woken up, than 'what time'.”

“Especially with whom!” Lestrade's cheeks flushed.

“And with whom?” Julia chuckled. “I’m curious now.”

“Alone, if you are so curious,” Sherlock said without turning to her. “But what really deserves attention…”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade interrupted him and sighed. “What do you want from me right now?”

Sherlock put his hands into his coat pockets and nervously bit his lip, then lifted his chin up firmly.

“I want to say that in your place I would be careful of such things.” He barely noticeably looked at Julia. “Unless, of course, it is not important to you, the things that happened this morning. Incorrect interpretation of the facts and misunderstandings are your main enemies at this stage.”

Lestrade thought that it really is _very_ important to him, things that happened this morning, and Julia... she's a cute and nice woman, but he doesn't feel anything but a friendly liking to her.

His mobile rang, displaying an unknown number on its screen. Lestrade apologized and got up from the table. He was glad to not have to respond to Sherlock's tirade and pretended not to notice Julia's questioning glance.

“Lestrade,” he said, moving to the farthest window.

“Good evening, Inspector.” Mycroft's voice, dry and official, sounded from the phone. “Unfortunately, our plans for today are canceled.” He held a brief pause, during which Lestrade feverishly fingered in his mind possible answers and rejected them one by one. “I'll call you closer to the weekend,” Mycroft finished with sudden coldness and without saying goodbye, hung up.

***

A week had passed.

Lestrade didn't jump anymore when his phone rang and stopped grabbing it at its first buzzing, but he still put his mobile on the pillow next to him before went to sleep.

He took a bag with his things out of Mycroft's home on the same evening, but he didn't return the keys. He didn't come up with a way to get them back. Lestrade mentally vowed to pass them through Sherlock if Mycroft won't appear 'for a long time', but refused to clearly define the time frame of this concept.

He no longer thought what he would say to Mycroft at their meeting, as he wasn't sure this meeting would take place in the near future at all.

Lestrade thought that Mycroft was also thinking about their future as a couple. That he weighed all the 'pros' and 'cons' with Holmes' scrupulosity and refused to continue those relationships.

He disappeared, not considering it necessary to warn Lestrade about his decision.

One evening Lestrade arrived at Mycroft's house and was hesitating near his car for one and a half hours, peering into the inky darkness of the windows, but unable to go inside.

Several times he dialed the number from which Mycroft called him, but only received a message: 'The subscriber is temporarily unavailable, or out of reach'.

As luck would have it, Sherlock also didn't show his face. But Lestrade decided that it would be unacceptable to call him or pay a visit and ask about disappeared elder Holmes.

At least for now.

On top of that Lestrade was surprised by the fact that he missed Mycroft.

He didn't understand how he could miss someone with who he talked couple of hours at the most, but the fact remained. Lestrade missed him.

He missed the ironic grin and fascinating timbre of Mycroft's voice. Missed his special manner of talking and his attentive gaze. Missed that unusual aura that Mycroft carried around him, and that was causing Lestrade commit rash acts.

***

Thrusting work documents into a safe, Lestrade pulled his coat out of a closet and was walking to the office door, 'that's enough for today,' but he was stopped by a quiet trill of his mobile.

“Lestrade”, he barked, ignoring the phone number, in anticipation of some idiotic situation, because of which he will have to stay at work.

“Inspector.” Dispassionate familiar voice struck Lestrade between his shoulder blades like an imagined whip. “What time are you done with work today?”

“Already done,” Lestrade answered with a husky voice and rubbed the back of his head nervously.

“Then I'll wait,” the invisible dialog partner informed him succinctly and hung up.

“What a stupid way of throwing a conversation mid-sentence!” Lestrade muttered in mock perturbation. His heart began pounding violently against his ribs and his hands were dampened with sweat. “Where will you wait?”

Lestrade left his office in a hurry, but slowed down in the corridor, considering, if he should go down the stairs or wait for a lift.

What if Mycroft is waiting for him in the lobby, or right next to the main entrance?

He can't show his impatience and appear in front of Holmes, gasping after the long run down stairs.

Detective Sergeant Kraise from the robbery unit caught him near the lift. She began telling him about some complex and complicated case. Her eyes mysteriously sparkled, and she begged him for a little advice. All the way down, she was muzzily stating facts. Lestrade was nodding his head in time with her words while mentally hurrying up the lazy lift.

Mycroft wasn’t in the lobby.

Lestrade came out of the building and finally saw the tall dark figure of Holmes, who froze on the edge of the sidewalk near his black sedan. Lestrade stopped suddenly. Immediately Detective Sergeant Kraise caught up with him and gripped his elbow. Having come to the conclusion that Lestrade was a real slow poke, she took initiative in her hands. She demonstrated her the most charming smile and offered to 'go for a coffee, or something stronger, and discuss this ve-e-ry complicated case'.

Lestrade politely smiled as well, meanwhile trying to detach the woman from his elbow.

Of course he would go for a cup of coffee with great pleasure, but unfortunately he has scheduled a meeting for which he is already late. Maybe, some other time.

Lestrade got rid of the persistent Kraise and went straight to Mycroft, who didn't make a single move during all this time.

He stood with his back proudly straight, putting his crossed hands on the handle of his black umbrella-cane. The umbrellas metal tip was buried of into asphalt.

If it weren't for minor eye movements, Mycroft could be mistaken for a stone statue.

Lestrade came closer. He noticed purple circles around eyes that were bloodshot from lack of sleep. Mycroft's trousers were wrinkled from sitting too long in one place, his knuckles were white - Mycroft clutched his umbrella tightly.

It was unlikely that all this time Holmes was slacking on a Hawaiian beach.

Lestrade glanced at the sedan. He noticed a parking card with the logo of Heathrow Airport under the windshield on the driver side. A dark blue sticker loomed in the back of the car, forgotten on the handle of a case. The style of the sticker was reminiscent of a special piece of paper with the inscription 'Hand luggage' that glues onto baggage. Lestrade was sure, that if he opened the car trunk right now, he would find a suitcase with a similar sticker for sure.

The thought that Mycroft hurried to him straight from the airport, made him feel at easy and happy.

Lestrade stopped a few steps away from Mycroft and didn't know what to do with his hands.

“I was driving past and decided to visit you,” said Holmes and nodded vaguely, moved his umbrella aside.

Lestrade knew Mycroft had to make a considerable detour to drive near Scotland Yard on his way home. Also he knew how it was hard for Holmes to admit aloud that he came here _on purpose_ for a meeting with Lestrade.

As hard as it was for Lestrade himself. But someone's got to have the courage and say it first.

In addition Lestrade longed to hug this frozen stubborn man, but he wasn't sure, was it allowed to hug Mycroft Holmes in broad daylight on a busy street, or not.

Well, he certainly wouldn't ask about it, would he?

“Come to me.” Lestrade spread his hands and with a smile locked Mycroft in his arms. “I've missed you,” he whispered without a shadow of his former unease. Mycroft gasped, clutching his arms tighter around Lestrade.

“Forgive me. I disappeared so suddenly.” Mycroft nuzzled his nose into Lestrade's cozy scarf, which was completely saturated with the smell of coffee, cigarettes and loneliness.

“I think you had good reasons for that,” Lestrade snorted.

“I did,” Mycroft agreed and paused.

But Lestrade didn't need the details, because he trusted his Holmes was not going to spend more time and nerves on pointless doubts.

“Let's go to my place?” Mycroft stepped back and looked into Lestrade's eyes. “Of course, that’s if you have no other plans for the evening,” he added hesitantly and glanced into the distance.

Lestrade turned and saw the Detective Sergeant Kraise. She was still standing near the main entrance, curiously watching them.

Probably tomorrow the whole office will discuss that Lestrade publicly was hugging some man at the corner of Scotland Yard.

Well and good.

Lestrade took Mycroft's chin, turned his face and met his eyes. “She is Detective Sergeant Kraise, and she was never in my ‘plans’. Just a colleague, nothing remarkable.”

Mycroft nodded discreetly. Releasing his chin, Lestrade gently kissed him on the corner of his mouth.

“Get into the car, hero. You're barely keeping up on your feet.” Grabbing Mycroft’s arm, Lestrade opened the car door.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last one. Enjoy!

Lestrade hastily swallowed his restaurant take-away dinner, but felt no taste or composition of the food. He then pulled Mycroft to the second floor.

“Is there any kind of informal clothing in your wardrobe? If so, I would like to see it on you.”

The word 'informal' sounded very similar to the word 'normal', and Mycroft mentally laughed, appreciating Lestrade's tact. “You want to rip this disgusting three-piece suit off me?” He clearly quoted, but Lestrade didn't even try to remember the origin of these words.

“Something like that.” He smiled, gently pushing Mycroft through bedroom threshold. “Hey, hey, I can manage it myself!” He slapped Mycroft on his hands, as he tried to undo his jacket.

“Yes, you can.” Mycroft agreed and stopped beside the bed with his arms at his sides.

Lestrade slowly slid his palms along the sleeves, enjoying the smoothness of the fabric. He gently squeezed Mycroft's shoulders, and then slipped his hands under the lapels of his jacket. He moved the flaps to different sides. His fingers run over the small buttons of Mycroft's waistcoat and pulled his jacket from his shoulders. A minute later, the waistcoat fell over the jacket.

Lestrade unfastened Mycroft's belt and tugged his shirt up, from under the belt. His hands sneaked under warm, slightly damp cotton. The skin on Mycroft's back was hot, it almost burnt Lestrade’s shameless palms. Mycroft hissed loudly through his teeth when Lestrade firmly pressed their bodies together.

“Your fantasies had a very exciting sequel.” Mycroft buried his fingers in the short silver hair on Lestrade's nape and gently stroked.

“How do you know my fantasies?” Lestrade snorted in disbelief, but after thirty seconds surrendered. “What are they about?”

“I will not say.” Mycroft narrows his eyes. “It would be too unseemly for a man of my age and position. If you recall, you'll understand.”

“I like the word 'unseemly' in relation to you in the context of the bedroom,” Lestrade admitted. “I will recall, and will do what I was going to.”

Feeling a strange lightness in his head, as if from easy intoxication, Lestrade left Mycroft's back and shirt in peace. He put his hands on Mycroft's shoulders and made him sit on the bed and then pulled off his shoes and socks.

Because from his own experience he knew that there was nothing more comical than a man without trousers, but wearing a shirt and socks.

He examined Mycroft's narrow feet, with correct form flexible toes and delicate skin, and traced their length, gently squeezed his deceptively thin ankle.

Mycroft watched his actions from under half-closed eyelashes, and Lestrade was unable to decipher his piercing gaze.

“Why were you nervous, considering the probability of the existence of sex between you and Sherlock in the past?” Mycroft leans back slightly, leaning on his elbows straightened at the arms.

“I was afraid that such an incident would change the level of our relationship with him for the worse.” Lestrade took off his jacket right on the floor and sat down next to Mycroft. “It was silly, of course. Since he knew from the moment of my return... my knowledge could hardly change the situation. But at the moment my mind floated a strange association with incest, and the corresponding rejection.”

“But if you suddenly found out that you were sleeping with me?” Mycroft raised his eyebrow.

“I would be upset.”

“Why?”

“Because sex with you was supposed to be something special.”

“Why such confidence?”

“Because you're a special person, and I treat you in a special way,” patiently explained Lestrade.

These words were very similar to a confession.

He pushed Mycroft’s chest, dropping him back on the bed. His hands slid over Mycroft's tough slender legs. For a split second he hesitated near the belt buckle, then unbuttoned Mycroft's trousers and pulled it's zipper down. Mycroft slightly lifted his buttocks, helping him.

Almost done.

Bending down, Lestrade deep breathed in the musky scent of an overheated male body and any remnants of doubt were driven away.

His head felt as though it was spinning and the world circled in front of his eyes.

Lestrade deftly undid the buttons, opened Mycroft's shirt and stared at the bright pink scar near his right shoulder.

“It's recent.” He carefully traced the smooth circle of a regular form with his forefinger. “How?”

“One sycophant tried to get me out of the way of his boss,” Mycroft answered reluctantly.

“You trapped him, using yourself as bait?” Lestrade continued haphazardly circling his hands over Mycroft's body, learning, remembering the smallest details.

“No.” Mycroft frowned discontentedly, remembering his blunder. When Lestrade froze in a fear that he inadvertently hurt him, Mycroft arched his back and covered Lestrade's hand with his own, returning former rhythm. “I was not ready for that situation.”

“Then, how did you get out?” Lestrade's eyes sparkled with curiosity.

“Some enamored idiot saved me.” Mycroft grinned.

“Should I begin to be jealous?” Lestrade frowned in mock rage.

“Begin, if you want.” Mycroft put his hands behind his head, pretending to be ready for show. “We'll just see how good your talent as a dramatic actor is.”

“I'll kill him,” Lestrade exclaimed loudly, shaking his right hand as though there was an invisible sword in it. “And you. And me with you.” He laughed and gently kissed Mycroft's lips. “Why is he an idiot by the way?” He asked, as he recovered his breath a couple of minutes later. “Or for you, Holmes, all people in love a priori are idiots?”

“Because this stubborn idiot almost lost his mind, over and over again resisting specified settings,” Mycroft said gravely and pressed his lips in a thin line. “Then he was lying unconscious for about a week, while experts tried to restore the structure of his brain, with little hope of success.”

“I recognize my verbal description.” Lestrade scratched his rough chin thoughtfully. “My mother always said that I had stubbornness.”

“It was careless of him,” Mycroft got excited. “Because... he... You could have become a 'vegetable'!” He blew up.

“But I haven't?” Lestrade shrugged with feigned nonchalance. “So, it was necessary.”

“Fucking fatalist,” Mycroft hissed angrily. He deftly twisted and dropped Lestrade on the bed.

Closing his eyes tight, Lestrade obediently surrendered to the power of sensations... of Mycroft?

It turned out that Holmes was able to communicate without words.

Tuning in some special telepathic channel, he opened up to Lestrade everything that he couldn't say aloud.

Confusion. Delight. Disappeared heartache.

Mycroft had a thousand gentle touches and skillful lips.

Lestrade missed the moment when all their clothes disappeared, and felt the refreshing infinity of sheets where there was only two overheated eager bodies. He wheezed and trembled on the bed. It felt too exciting for the first time.

Too crazy. Fresh and so sharp.

There was no way to restrain his hips that arched toward Mycroft's hands. He felt a tart metallic aftertaste in his mouth, and then a soothing whisper appeared on the fringe of his consciousness, 'Hush! Relax'. A wet tongue ran over his dry lips, as a painful bite-kiss partially dissipated the heavy mist in front of his eyes.

“This is the highest concentration of the desire in the blood that I've ever tasted.” A quiet Mycroft's chuckle like a shiver rolled along Lestrade's spine.

His abdomen was tight and his legs were numb from uncontrolled power of excitation that enveloped him on all sides like a thick cocoon. It seemed his body was immersed in molten lava. Choking with a silent cry, Lestrade trembled in a cage of ecstasy, as if in a far inexperienced youth he didn't know how to hasten the climax.

All his senses were working in emergency mode.

The air was so thick that it was necessary to push it in lungs. A tension that spilled around the room as though it could be spooned.

His every nerve was vibrating loudly, responding to Mycroft's skillful touches. Demanding to end this blessed torture. Pleading to continue.

A groan escaped from his throat and his heart increased it's already over-limit tempo.

Lestrade understood that he finally got to the finish line.

He was upset, that everything ended so predictably quickly, and hoped that the level of his reaction to Mycroft wouldn't decrease over time.

Somehow mysteriously he knew that everything in their life was going to happen that way.

Happiness that you find on the road of despair is valued much more than the same given to you at birth.

Several sharp rough thrusts into Mycroft's hand, and his body sparked with unprecedented pleasure. Lestrade was rapidly falling down. Shrill whistling of the wind sounded in his ears.

But strong arms picked him up on the fly, hugged, cradled in arms, and the roar of the wind was replaced by incoherent whispers, the world slowly restored to its old stability.

'Stay', a fading echo rang somewhere in the depths of his memory.

***

Mycroft woke up around four in the morning, when the night haze began to dissipate, making the world unreal and alien. He carefully moved out from Lestrade's embrace and reached to turn off an alarm clock. It was a weekend, so there was no need to wake Gregory up so early. Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed, intending to go down to the kitchen to make some fresh tea and possibly prepare a simple breakfast. He had got enough sleep already, but he didn't want to interrupt Lestrade's rest.

But as soon as he tried to get out of bed strong fingers unexpectedly clenched his wrist.

“Stay,” Lestrade said and squinted sleepily. “I'm tired of losing you with every new dawn.”

Bitter impending doom froze in his eyes.

A strange painful spasm squeezed his throat, and Mycroft couldn't say a word.

Without any objections he climbed back into bed, guilt and confusion mixed on his face. Lestrade fell asleep as soon as he found himself in Mycroft's arms, putting his right leg on Mycroft's thigh just in case.

But Mycroft couldn't sleep.

He gently caressed the hair at Lestrade's nape, sometimes going down to his back and moving his hand weightlessly along Lestrade's spine, and stroked his shoulder blades. He mentally cursed his indecision and spread his own selfishness on the rack of conscience.

He silently apologized and assured that this would never happen again, hoping that Lestrade heard his words... felt.

And ceased to suffer nightmares.

The first rays of a new day cut a fragile twilight, with a predator's ruthlessness tearing to shreds the shadow which had always loomed behind Lestrade's shoulder.

The shadow squeezed, faded and dissolved in the bright sunlight.

Mycroft hoped that now it was gone forever. He didn't notice, as he also fell asleep, lulled by the steady breath of the man sleeping near him.

***

A persistent phone call woke them up a few hours later.

Glancing at the caller's name, Mycroft answered the phone.

“Sherlock?”

“Stop interfering in my personal life!” Sherlock growled too energetically for the early morning. “I warn you for the last time!”

“Or what?” Mycroft asked coldly.

“I'll tell Lestrade whole truth about your business with Dollhouse.”

“He already knows everything.” Mycroft looked at rumpled, not yet fully awakened Lestrade, and could not help but smiled. “What am I accused of?”

“John Watson,” Sherlock spelled, with anger in his voice.

“Sorry, but I still don't understand.” Mycroft shrugged his shoulders, forgetting that his brother couldn't see him. “What's wrong with the man?”

“Is he another doll, or just an ordinary unemployed actor, who you hired for a penny?”

“I'm afraid I wasn't involved in this.” Mycroft tried to hide his gasp with cough, when Lestrade resumed yesterday's studies, lightly stroking Mycroft's hardened nipple with fingertips. “But if you're so worried, I can find out all available information about him through my channels.”

Sherlock hissed something unintelligible and hung up.

***

The next remarkable phone call happened closer to lunch time, after they got out of bed and took a shower. Mycroft had just finished making pancakes.

“Mr. Holmes,” the smooth voice of Mycroft's assistant was heard on the phone. “We have a small incident.”

“What's the matter?” Mycroft nervously pushed aside a cup of tea and got up from the table.

“I've got a call from the MI5 security service. Your brother found way into Thames House, using your access card, and he tried to bring in another man. Some John Watson.”

“Sherlock pushed his friend into a capsule at the lobby and wanted to break into a guard booth?” Mycroft asked, instantly relaxing.

“That's right.” Slight bewilderment glided in his assistant's tone.

“Which of the sensors was activated?”

“Not one. The guy turned out to be 'purer' than a baby.”

“That's fine,” Mycroft grinned. “Register this incident as an informal check of the security of the building. I'll speak with my brother later.”

“Has something serious happened?” asked Lestrade, as soon as Mycroft put his phone on the table, and licked a drop of syrup off his the index finger.

“Very serious.” Mycroft nodded and smiled enigmatically. “It looks like Sherlock has finally found the man he was looking for all these years. And now he's terribly afraid that this man isn’t real.”

“What man?”

“John Watson. I should get to know him as soon as possible.”


End file.
